


Way Down We Go

by xiaq



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Chronic Illness, Desi Harry Potter, Domestic, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter gets therapy before he gets a happy ending because honestly, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Recovery, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Werewolf Harry Potter, idiots to lovers, katydids, oh my god they were roommates, oh no we have to maintain physical contact for health reasons, red dirt, so many corn fields, southern aesthetics like whoa, swimming holes, two morons yelling at each other in the rain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-01-31 13:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiaq/pseuds/xiaq
Summary: The war was over.Or at least that’s what the papers said.They’d been saying it, for months, as if people needed reminding.Maybe they did.***In which Harry and Draco both run away from their pasts and conveniently choose to hide in the same tiny American town.It's super.





	1. Prologue

in this story, your mother isn’t the villain.  
in this story, you find a way to pick the lock, to wake up, to climb out of the tower yourself.  
in this story, you’re angry.  
in this story, you meet a dragon and  
it is afraid of you.  
in this story, you don’t need to be saved.  
in this story, your mother raised you  
to recognize a prison from a home.  
in this story, they don’t fall in love with you before they know you.  
in this story, they aren’t better than you.  
in this story, you have claws.  
in this story, happily ever after has bite marks in it.  
in this story, you are free and terrifying.  
in this story, you get away.  
in this story, you bleed.  
in this story, you survive.

_|_ _ [Caitlyn Siehl](http://alonesomes.tumblr.com/) _

. 

. 

. 

The war was over.

Or at least that’s what the papers said.

They’d been saying it, for months, as if people needed reminding.

Maybe they did.

Maybe others found it just as easy to forget. Maybe they, like Harry, often ducked at sudden movements, flinched at loud noises, and sometimes, inexplicably, found breathing an uncertain and laborious task. Maybe they went to sleep with ghosts and woke up with guilt and spent a little too long, eyes closed, head submerged, in the bath.

The war was over.

But what happens to heroes when wars are over? When prophesies are satisfied and evil is defeated. _Heroes are supposed to live happily ever after_ , Harry thinks. But he doesn’t know what that looks like. How that happens. _There aren’t stories about that part._ He wishes there were because he’s eighteen and living in an empty house with a second inheritance and a job offer and thousands of owl-post letters thanking him and asking him for interviews and—he feels simultaneously ancient and infantile. 

He is so, so tired. But he also wants someone to tell him what to do. To tell him what comes after the fighting and the death and the supposed victory.

Maybe the better question is: what happens to _weapons_ when wars are over?

Because that’s what he is, Harry realises, and perhaps it is an embarrassingly delayed realisation. After all, he _had_ been carefully honed: by ignorance and cruelty and finally, maybe worst of all, affection. His abusive childhood was not just a thing overlooked or allowed, but _curated_ , to make him more reckless, more desperate, more stupidly, fiercely, loyal. _More willing to die._

It was effective, though, wasn’t it? It worked. He’d saved the world. And now he was—he didn’t know.

He took Kingsley’s offer to join the Aurors. Of course he did. It was expected.

It only occurred to him later to ask why a traumatized teenager without completed schooling or any legitimate credentials aside from their name would be given that dispensation. But by the time it occurred to him to ask, he already knew the answer.

The Ministry of Magic did not need a weapon, not anymore. But they did need a figurehead. He was the boy who lived twice. The savior. Harry, photographed at crime scenes, returned widespread public approval to the Ministry. Harry’s endorsement determined the success or failure of politicians’ runs. Of legislation. Of books and brooms and fucking _soap_. He shook hands and held his tongue. He learned the right lines. He wore the right clothes.

But.

You can put a sword on a wall. You can shine it and mount it on mahogany and show it off as nothing more than decoration.

But it is still a sword.

And Harry is still a weapon.

Harry realises this on an otherwise ordinary Monday, that starts, early, as most days do, with the lingering feeling of nightmare blood on his hands. When the day ends, the blood is real. When the day ends, so does the last of his willingness to pretend. So he goes home and he emails Hermione and he sends an owl with his resignation to Kingsley. He packs a bag, and floos to the international travel office. And he stands in front of the permanent portkey map and chooses the most obscure, ridiculous, location. Somewhere with more livestock than people. With no expectations. With enough space and open air that maybe his lungs will stop feeling claustrophobic in his chest. Where he won’t be able to hurt anyone.

He picks somewhere no one will know his name.

What happens to heroes when wars are over?

In Harry’s case, they run away.

****

What happens to villains when wars are over?

Draco supposes that, in most cases, they die. That certainly seems to be the Ministry’s objective. His father is dead, along with the majority of former death eaters sentenced to life in prison. Admittedly, death was perhaps preferable to the alternative of actually _living_ in Azkaban.

They’d given Draco his father’s ashes. A pitiable allowance, really. He wasn’t sure what to do with them. Lucious Malfoy should have been interred in the family crypt, but the marble mausoleum, its centuries of residents, and the estate they belonged to had all been seized by the Ministry as reparations. So his father was left, without fanfare, a pound of dust in a wooden box that Draco handled with more quiescence than care.

Draco can’t decide if his own punishment is worse.

It was professed as a kindness—a mercy due to his youth:

Five years without magic.

But everyone in that courtroom knew it was equal to a death sentence. He was unlikely to survive one year, much less five.

With his magic hobbled, his health and fortune gone, and a face as recognizable as his anathematized surname, Draco quickly finds himself thinking, not fondly, but certainly resignedly, of death.

It would be easier.

His mother, at least, is safe. And he is indebted to Potter for that. Thanks to Potter’s intercession at Narcissa’s trial, she avoided both prison time and magical impairment. She is a shadow of the woman she used to be, working for the first time in her life at a bookshop in Diagon Alley. She lives in the tiny flat above it and is slowly selling the family jewellery collection, one agony at a time, to supplement her meager income. But she is alive. And people do not treat her too cruelly.

Draco, though.

The black snake on his arm is a testament to the ending he deserves.

Six months after Lucius’ death, Draco visits his mother for the last time.

He refuses to let her watch him die.

He will not continue endangering her and his remaining friends with his presence.

He is out of money, he cannot find a job, and the constant rattle in his lungs is getting hard to hide. So he brings his mother a flower at work and kisses her cheek and waves off her concern that he’s lost even more weight.

Despite caution, someone catches him with a hex as he leaves the shop and he returns to Theo’s horrible muggle flat—where Draco has been sleeping on the sofa—with bloody teeth and enough shame to last for the rest of his life. He packs his father with the meager remnants of his belongings and he walks to the international travel office. He stands in front of the permanent portkey map and chooses the cheapest, strangest, most rural, location. Somewhere that might as well have been called “Anonymity.” Somewhere without city streets or alleyways or preconceived notions. Somewhere no one would know his name.

What happens to villains when wars are over?

In Draco’s case, they run away.


	2. Chapter 2

He sees Potter first at the Piggly Wiggly in Lewisville, Alabama.

And isn’t that a bizarre sentence.

Draco initially thinks he might be hallucinating, but the fever he’s running is only low-grade and he’s actually feeling sort of alright otherwise.

He pulls up the hood on his jumper—lovely muggle thing—and peeks into the next aisle around an end cap of discounted tomato sauce.

It’s definitely Potter.

His hair is longer, he’s not wearing those stupid fucking glasses, and the way he’s glowering at the cleaning supplies, arms crossed, accentuates the fact that he’s probably put on a solid 10kg of muscle since Draco last saw him.

But the profile is the same.

The set of his shoulders.

The faded jeans and ratty trainers.

The way he sighs and briefly rubs at his forehead—probably more habit at this point than anything else.

Potter puts a jug of bleach in his trolley and moves further down the aisle to consider scented Febreeze candles.

_What the fuck,_ Draco thinks.

A few seconds later, Potter’s head comes up, turning abruptly toward him and Draco scrambles a hasty retreat.

He abandons his own trolley and goes to sit in the cab of Lavon’s truck and wait. He’ll catch hell for taking so long at the store but he certainly can’t let Potter see him.

_Potter._

In the _Piggly Wiggly._

In _Alabama._

What is he _doing_ here?

In the three months Draco has been living in Tarant county he hasn’t encountered a single witch or wizard. Not that he’s noticed, anyway. Why there’s a permanent portkey and apparition point set up in a small warded outbuilding behind the post office in Marian, he has no idea. But when he came through, the general dust and disrepair of the building indicated he’d been the first to use the location in some time.

Harry emerges from the Piggly Wiggly several minutes after Draco’s hasty retreat.

He packs three plastic bags and what looks to be a mop into the boot of a shiny black car, and then peels out of the parking lot with a degree of noise and flamboyance that seems unnecessary.

Draco waits an additional minute, just to be safe, and then returns to his shopping.

It shouldn’t be surprising that The Boy Who Lived wanted an escape as well.

Perhaps Potter chose the Lewisville portkey for the same reason Draco did. Maybe he looked at the map and saw that one, isolated, American pin and thought, _yes, perfect._

Regardless, if Potter has chosen Lewisville as his hideaway it will be easy enough to avoid him since Draco has only driven into “the city” a handful of times. It’s honesty laughable that Lewisville is considered a city at all with its population of just over three thousand, but it’s certainly larger that Marian which, with Draco’s arrival, now sits at a tidy 400.

Lewisville has, not only a Piggly Wiggly, but two petrol stations, an Ag Supply, a small shopping centre and, perhaps most importantly, a nursery and greenhouse.

Pure opulence, Lewisville.

By comparison, Marian has one petrol station, the Tarant county courthouse and post office, and a tiny block of “Main Street” which is mostly boarded up and vacant. The only shop fronts still open are the legal office, the thrift store, the diner, and Daughter’s Grocery which carries, or can order, everything from toothpaste to goat feed to lumber. It’s more of a multipurpose grocery, outdoors, hunting, fishing, hardware, agriculture supply store. But mostly people just call it Daughters.

It had originally been called Whitlock Grocery. Brian James Whitlock went on to have three daughters, and, being the progressive man he was, expanded and renamed his business Whitlock and Daughters Grocery. Some time within the following two decades, a tornado took Whitlock’s name off the front of the building and left it in a cow pasture a few miles up the road. Retired, James suggested they leave it be. And so. Daughters Grocery it is.

Draco works at Daughters which seems a little counterintuitive considering he is not a daughter, much less a Whitlock daughter. But he was desperate and his only other options for employment in Marian were farming-related. While he’s under no aspersions about the length of his lifespan, Draco certainly isn’t going to hurry things along with manual labour. 

So he works five days a week at Daughters, 9-3, and on Fridays and Saturdays he borrows Lavon’s truck, drives into Carthridge, loads the truck with a few dozen boxes, and delivers Amazon packages to six surrounding counties.

Between the two jobs, he’s usually able to pay his rent and utilities to Lavon—who owns the Airstream he’s living in, currently parked behind Daughters—and still have enough left over, after food costs, to send his mother something as well.

It’s not exactly a _good_ situation.

The trailer is twenty-years-old and falling apart and doesn’t have electricity which will likely be problematic in a few months. But he can take a shower at the end of the day and the storage bed is lofted just enough to make him feel safe, surrounded by windows that look at the dense woods behind the shop. And there’s all manner of wildlife that meander past his open door every morning as he sits on the steps and nurses a cup of tea and watches the morning sun dry dew on the tall grass.

It’s better than London.

There was nowhere he felt safe there. Nowhere he could sit bare-footed and half-awake with a warm, cracked, mug held carelessly in both hands.

In Marian, he’s odd. But he’s not targeted. Not hated. Not vulnerable.

He’s surviving.

And the people, well. They can be strange. All muggles still seem strange to Draco but American muggles— _Southern_ American Muggles—certainly seem the most odd. They treat him kindly, though, if with an equal degree of bafflement. And he’s begun to think of Billy and Lavon and Ira as a sort of…extended family. Strange as that is.

He’s thinks they may actually mourn him when he dies.

He feels a little bad about that.

***

The second time he sees Potter is a week later.

Draco is in the gardening section of Daughter’s trying to coax a few sad African Violet plants back from the brink of death—honestly, why had Billy even ordered them?—and he’s fervently wishing he could just poke a finger into the soil and perk them up—he always did have top marks at herbology—when the bell above the door rings and—

Potter.

Same scruffy shoes and jeans. A checked shirt, this time.

No glasses.

One moment Potter is squinting at a piece of crumpled notebook paper in his hands and then the next his head snaps up and he’s looking directly at Draco.

Draco doesn’t even have a chance to duck behind a bag of fertiliser.

Harry says nothing.

Draco says nothing.

“Drake!” Billy yells from the cold section. “Was that the bell?”

“Yes ma’am!” he yells back.

He stands.

He wipes his hands on his khaki trousers.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “Is there anything I can help you find?”

“ _Malfoy_?” Potter says,

God, he looks so stupid.

And still insufferably attractive despite the ugly, gaping, thing, his mouth is doing.

Shameful.

“Good afternoon,” Draco says again, pointedly. “I’ll be happy to assist you if you’re looking for something in particular. Is that a list you have?”

Potter looks at the paper in his hands like he’s never seen it before.

He looks back up at Draco again, posture shifting into something a little more dangerous.

“I don’t—did you _follow_ me?”

Jesus.

“Potter,” Draco hisses, hoping his voice is low enough that Billy can’t hear him, “I’ve been here for _three months_. Kindly fuck off or cast a mufflatio because my muggle boss is just over there.”

“Why don’t _you_ cast a—Oh.”

Like Potter wasn’t at the sentencing. Clearly memory is not one of the Chosen One’s strengths.

“Right, sorry.”

Potter doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even get out his wand, but Draco can feel the magic settle over him like a cape. Both familiar and wretchedly distant. He tries not to flinch but isn’t entirely successful.

He coughs a few times.

Potter frowns at him.

“What are you doing here?” Potter asks.

Draco doesn’t have a chance to answer because Billy comes around the corner and nearly runs into them.

“Oh!” She says, “I’m sorry. Things got all quiet and I got worried.”

She turns to Harry and positively beams.

The magic wrapped around them abruptly dissipates.

“Well hello, sweetheart,” Billy says, “I haven’t seen you here before. Just passing through or do you plan to stick around for a bit?”

“Um,” Potter says, ever eloquent. “Here to stay, I think? I mean. I’ve bought some land, so.”

Draco feels abruptly nauseous.

“Oh how lovely. Whereabouts?”

“It’s not far from here, up Timber Mill road?”

_No._

“Mostly fields, the property backs down to the river. There are two barns but I guess the house was destroyed—”

“In the tornado last year,” Billy agrees. “Shame about that. It’s such a beautiful piece of land, though. Are you planning to rebuild?”

“I’m not sure yet. I was thinking I’d convert one of the barns for now?”

_No. No. No._

“Well, that sounds nice. Is that what the list is for?”

“Oh, yeah. Tools and things, mostly. And, er, some chains.”

He hands it over and she slips her reading glasses from the top of her head to her nose.

“Well, let’s see what we have in stock and what we’ll have to order. Better come with me. Drake is a good boy but he’s not much for heavy lifting.”

Draco is more relieved than offended.

It’s not like she’s wrong.

“Now,” she says, leading Potter toward the back. “What is that accent you’ve got? Where are you from?”

“Oh, er. London, actually.”

“Really! Drake is from London as well. What a small world.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, looking over his shoulder. “Small world.”

Draco turns back to the African Violets.

He makes sure he’s restocking a shelf at the opposite end of the store when Potter pays and leaves.

***

The third time he sees Potter is also at Daughters.

It’s two weeks later, and Billy has left early for one of her grandkids’ softball games, so he’s alone at the counter when the bell rings and Potter slouches his way inside.

Well.

That’s not entirely accurate. He doesn’t really slouch anymore—doesn’t walk with his shoulders curved in like he’s trying to hide how broad they are. There’s still something distinctly…casual, about him, though. Or maybe casual is the wrong word. Maybe _unrefined_ fits better. Maybe he strolls. Maybe he _saunters_. Maybe he—

“Hi,” Potter says.

Right.

“Good afternoon,” Draco says.

He’s not sure how to play this.

Potter glances around the store. “Is Billy here?”

He wonders if he should pretend she is.

He doesn’t think he’s in danger from Potter, but—

“She’ll be back shortly.”

Potter blinks at him, eyebrows furrowed a little.

His dark skin looks strangely grey, Draco thinks. Less…rich. Or something. The circles under his eyes seem to imply he hasn’t slept since the last time Draco saw him.

Potter opens his mouth. Closes it. Starts again.

“So, you’re going by Drake, now?”

“Drake Black,” Draco says.

“You realize no one would know your name here anyway.”

“Of course. But I imagined individuals in this geographic region are rather more familiar with water fowl than dragons.”

“And the Black?”

“My mother’s maiden name.

“Yeah, I know. I meant—never mind. What are you _doing_ here?”

“Working.”

“Okay, obviously, but I mean here in Marian.”

“Hiding, clearly. I’d think you would recognise the gesture.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Draco coughs. It turns into a bit of an ordeal that requires a sip of water from the mason jar he keeps under the counter.

Potter has the audacity to look concerned.

“Are you sick?” Potter asks.

“Usually.”

Potter exhales in a way that is very, very, familiar.

It nearly makes Draco smile.

“Problem?” Draco asks.

“I just mean. You don’t look… healthy.”

“Yes. Well. That would be the inbreeding.”

Potter rolls his eyes.

Draco does not get a thrill from it.

“Fine. Whatever. I’m hoping you can order some things for me.”

“Things,” Draco repeats.

“Yes.”

Draco looks at the list Potter slides across the counter.

Business. He can do this.

“Well we already have the PVC and 2x4s here, I don’t think we carry the fluorescent tube lights in this size, but we can order them and get them relatively quickly. The rest may take longer. Like the—”

He pauses.

“Potter,” he says. “Are you making some sort of grow room? With hydroponics?”

“Er. Yes.”

“So you’ve just. Come to rural Alabama. And bought property. And are now building a hydroponic grow room in some basement somewhere. Just for fun?”

“Not the basement,” Potter says. “I’m—there’s a barn.”

“There’s a _barn_ ,” Draco repeats flatly. “Is it climate-controlled? Can you manage the moisture? And these lights—why not HID or LED? I mean flourescent is certainly better than _incandescent_ , but—”

“Oh yes,” Harry mutters sarcastically, “god forbid, incandescence.”

Draco stops talking.

“Sorry,” Potter says, and then makes a face like maybe he hadn’t meant to apologise.

“That’s actually—how do you know about this?” Potter asks.

“I know many things, Potter,” Draco says. He crosses his arms, curling the fingers of one hand around his opposite bicep.

Except then Potter is looking very intently at his arm, perhaps observing the fact that Draco’s hand can almost entirely encircle it.

He lets go.

He clears his throat.“I’ll just order these items for you.”

“I’d actually…. appreciate your input. If you—ifgrowing plants indoors is something you’re knowledgeable about.”

Draco considers this.

Curiosity wins.

“What are you trying to grow?”

“Oh. Just. Some potions ingredients.”

Draco really deserves some sort of commendation for not laughing out loud.

Potter smiles, a little wry, a little self-deprecating.

They both know he’s pants at potions.

“I see,” Draco manages.

“I’ve been doing some research and apparently the more sensitive ones require close monitoring so just planting them outside isn’t a good idea unless you have a magical management system in place. And I figured it would be easier using the muggle way than teaching myself advanced herbology engineering and husbandry.”

“The muggle way is rather complex as well,” Draco points out.

“Do you, uh. Have experience with that?”

“Not…practically. But I could perhaps provide some theoretical insight.”

The bell chimes and four of the five Watson boys come tumbling inside, shoving at each other.

“Boys,” Draco says warningly.

They shove a little less exuberantly.

Their harried mother, holding child five on her hip, opens the door a moment later.

“Mrs. Watson,” Draco says.

“Drake,” she sighs. “Please tell me you’ve restocked the—”

“Ice cream. Yes. I hid three gallons of chocolate behind the Neapolitan for you, just in case.”

“Bless you,” she says fervently.

Potter watches the exchange with interest.

“So,” Potter says. “Billy told me you can deliver large items to my place for an extra fee? The lumber isn’t going to fit in my car.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees. “Deliveries are in the evenings, though.”

“Well, could you bring the 2x4s and PVC tonight and maybe take a look at my plans? Before I order anything else?”

“Lavon does deliveries,” Draco says.

“Does Lavon know about hydroponics?”

Draco sighs. He glances at Mrs. Watson who is shepherding her boys, all holding ice cream, toward the register.

“I won’t be any help unloading the truck.”

He coughs for emphasis. And then coughs a little more just because.

“That’s…fine.”

“Lovely. Shall I ring you up?”

Mrs. Watson gets in line behind Potter, whisper-yelling at her children to act right.

“Yes,” Potter says. “Please. When can I expect you tonight?”

“Five-thirty.”

“Alright.”

There is a painful, polite, silence as he grapples with the antique register.

Potter pays and leaves.

“I’ll see you at five-thirty,” he says.

***

Draco doesn’t arrive at Potter’s residence until five-thirty-five because he’s a petty bitch.

“Residence” is perhaps an overly kind term considering that Potter is apparently, actually, _living in a barn_ , but considering his own accommodations, Draco holds his tongue.

Potter, at least, has both running water _and_ electricity.

Draco stands just inside the open doors of Potter’s…home, watching as Potter throws around a few suspension charms and sticking spells on what appears to be a half-constructed kitchen, and tries not to feel overwhelmingly bitter.

“Sorry,” Potter says, shoving his wand into the back pocket of his jeans like a heathen. “Got caught up. We actually need to drive the new materials down to the other barn, so—“

“Oh,” Draco says. “I saw the lights here and assumed—“

“Right. No problem. Should we just—“

“Yes. Of course.”

It is a short and silent drive.

The second barn is larger, older-looking, and the minute Draco steps out of the truck’s cab he can feel the wards.

They make his chest hurt.

In addition to wards, there are two massive padlocks chained to the doors that Potter opens easily with a distracted, wand-less, _alohomora_.

Asshole.

“You’ll have to let me in,” Draco says tightly, standing just at the periphery of the wards.

“What?” Harry says. “Those are anti-muggle. You’re fine.”

Draco says nothing.

“Oh.” Potter says. “Right.”

Five minutes later, Draco is poking around what is, admittedly, a rather nice space. Retrofitting it for hydroponics and lighting shouldn’t be an issue, but depending on what plants Potter wants to grow, the climate control might be.

He reaches for a book with several post-it ears sitting on a sawmill and Potter snatches it quickly into his own hands.

Draco raises an eyebrow but keeps moving. He pauses, backtracking, to consider the windows that used to belong to a series of horse stalls. The stalls are gone and the windows are boarded up, but they probably still—

He trips.

He crashes, palms and then elbow and then hip, onto the concrete. He sucks in a startled breath, and tries very hard not to make stupid noises as he shifts himself into a seated position.

He will not cry in front of Harry fucking Potter.

“Shit,” Potter says, jogging over to him. “Sorry, I forgot to warn you about the—thing.”

There’s a giant metal helix anchor mostly screwed into the floor but still protruding from the slab a solid four or five inches. It looks like the sort of thing that muggles use to anchor suspension cables. What it’s doing in the middle of a _barn_ , Draco has no idea.

“What the fuck is _that_ ,” he says, and it comes out a little more breathy than he’d intended.

“Here,” Potter says, crouching next to him. “Let me see your hands. I can—”

“No. Fuck off. I’m fine.”

He tucks his hands under his armpits because clearly that is the adult, mature, way to proceed.

Potter falls back on his heels looking stupidly earnest. “Are you sure?”

Draco kicks the offending anchor.

It’s surrounded by deep scratches—a solid five foot radius of the concrete floor littered with crumbling pock-marks, some nearly half an inch deep. He wonders what the previous owners of the place used the barn for. He wonders what could do that sort of damage to _concrete_.

Potter clears his throat.

Draco stands.

Slowly.

“So,” he says, trying to walk like his hip doesn’t feel shattered to bits. “What are you planning to grow?”

“Does that…really matter?” Potter hedges.

Draco gives him an unimpressed look. “Some plants require high humidity to flourish. Some need an arid environment. Some need different soil composition; different watering and light schedules; higher or lower Ph. If you want to grow a selection with varied requirements, you’ll need to set up distinct systems.”

“That,” Potter says.

“What?”

“The—varied. I need different systems. I think.”

“You think.”

“Well, I’ll want a mix of common plant potion ingredients. Most that need a lot of light and a humid environment. But also a few, uh.” He crosses his arms. “There are a few plants I’ll have that need dry air, but moisture-retentive soil. And only partial light.” It sounds like he’s quoting from something. “So. That would require a special system. Right?”

Dry air. Moisture-retentive soil. Partial light.

What is he—

“Yes, but the hemisphere the plant is native to is also important to consider,” Draco lies. “Southern versus Northern, for instance—”

“Northern.”

Draco stops walking.

He looks back at the anchor on the floor.

The pile of chains in the corner.

The subtle smell of bleach.

He considers the fact that this barn is protected by both muggle and magical means when the place Harry is ostensibly _living_ has no wards or locks at all.

He considers Harry’s exhausted face.

He thinks: _The full moon was last night._

He limps forward, bending at the waist to pick up the book Potter abandoned when Draco fell.

“Wait—“ Potter says, but Draco has already opened it to the first post-it-marked page.

Chapter-heading: _Aconitum—Ecology, Cultivation, and Potion Use_

“Oh,” Draco says. “Fucking hell _.”_

“Hold on,” Potter says.

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Draco repeats. “You’re a _werewolf?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Hello friends! The end of the semester is upon us.
> 
> In scholarly news: I have a stack of papers to grade about various comics, graphic novels, and mangas (I love my life). My dissertation prospectus was approved upon the second draft (hooray!) and I defend in August which is both terrifying and exciting. I'm also going to be speaking at Escape Velocity Con in DC the week after next (The fandom panel and the queer sci-fi panel), so if you're going to the con or live in DC and want to meet up, let me know! I love meeting strangers from the internet.
> 
> In dog news: Deacon remains the goodest boy.
> 
> In personal news: I went to ren fest this weekend and I won the pirate costume contest! $25 and a handful of food and beverage vouchers that I spent with friends on various forms of merriment. For pics, see my tumblr (I'm also Xiaq there). Deacon even dressed up a little! He had a flower crown. 
> 
> In fic news: I'll see you in 2 weeks!


	3. Chapter 3

Harry spends his first full moon as a wolf chained to the floor of a barn he doesn’t own.

Well. Doesn’t own _yet_.

He’d found the place, empty and perfect for his needs, three days after portkeying to Marian. He’d made a cash offer that same night, but even with a thirty-day close that meant he didn’t sign the paperwork until eight days after the full moon.

He’d figured it was a good test, anyway.

He didn’t escape.

No one called the police.

No one got hurt.

He signs the paperwork a week later and makes a mental note to buy more chains for the following full moon. Just to be safe.

It’s a beautiful piece of property. One hundred and thirteen acres. Two barns. A full creek. An assortment of ponds. It’s mostly overgrown, terraced, fields connected by red-dirt roads and surrounded on all sides by shockingly tall trees, insulated by thick undergrowth. The first night, he opens the hayloft doors in the smaller barn and sits with his legs hanging over the edge, bare heels against sun-warmed metal siding, looking at a sky full of bright, bright stars. It’s so _quiet_ , but simultaneously not: the night air a susurrus of nature-sounds that helps to settle the pacing, anxious, thing, that’s taken up residence in his chest.

He thinks that, maybe, he could be happy here.

He spends his first week as a home-owner (barn-owner?) dealing with plumbers and electricians and a very inept AT&T installation technician who takes several days to set up his wifi. He makes three trips in the same number of days to the nearest superstore—a Piggly Wiggly—for cleaning supplies.

It’s during the second trip, when he’s trying to figure out what cleaner is mostly likely to get rid of old horse piss stains, that he’s suddenly certain he can smell Draco Malfoy.

Which is absurd on a number of levels.

First, he can hardly smell _anything_ because the overpowering scent of detergent has probably burned out the majority of his supernatural olfactory senses. Second, Draco Malfoy wouldn’t be caught dead in America, much less in Alabama. Third, he shouldn’t know what Malfoy _smells_ like anyway.

He turns to look in the direction of the scent, more or less instinct, but there’s nothing there. After a few minutes, he leaves his trolley and circles a few other aisles just to be sure. Still nothing.

He finishes his shopping and tries not to think about Draco sodding Malfoy anymore.

He’s mostly successful until, a week later, he walks into the only grocery store in Marian and—there he is.

In khakis and a long-sleeved white shirt despite the heat.

Malfoy has always been skinny. Pointy. Angular.

But he’s not just skinny, now. He’s—emaciated. And even that word, awful as it is, doesn’t feel suitably shocking enough for the change. Malfoy’s cheekbones are so prominent they look painful. His hair, hair that used to be beautiful, Harry will grudgingly admit, is lank and brittle.

He looks like he should be at St. Mungo’s, not stocking shelves.

And what the hell is he _doing_ stocking shelves at a muggle grocery store in the middle of nowhere in Alabama?

Harry doesn’t remember much of their following interaction but he does know that

Malfoy is still a cantankerous bastard, and more than once Harry wants to shake him. He looks like he might break if Harry did, though.

Malfoy pauses often to cough, like it’s a habit, which only reinforces Harry’s grudging concern.

He leaves the shop with more questions than answers.

Two weeks later, after a second metaphorically hellish full moon and a literal bath of dittany, he invites Malfoy to his house for some ungodly reason.

And then, because Malfoy isn’t an idiot, and Harry clearly is, Malfoy figures out his big, horrible, secret within five minutes of stepping foot on the property.

The shock sends Malfoy into a coughing fit and Harry actually has to help him sit down and get him a glass of water and then Harry spends the following ten minutes watching as Malfoy breathes shallowly and pages through the dozen or so books Harry has collected.

“How long?” Malfoy asks.

“Two months,” Harry answers.

Malfoy is silent for several more minutes.

“You had help with this,” he says finally, holding up a notebook with sketched out blueprints. “Granger?”

Harry considers arguing but deflates at Malfoy’s raised eyebrow.

“Yeah. And she’s been emailing me, helping me make lists of supplies. She’s also put me in touch with a restricted plants and animals dealer here in the states so I can actually purchase some wolfsbane once I’ve got this thing—“ he gestures to the space around them—“ working.”

“Fantastic.”

“It is, rather.”

“So,” Malfoy says, attention still on the notebook. “You thought you’d just come to America. Avoid the news getting out that the Boy Who Lived has been turned. And you thought you’d buy some property and dabble in potions and if it didn’t work out—what— at least there wouldn’t be press? At least you wouldn’t be _killing people you know_? There are _good people_ here, Potter.”

Harry is momentarily too shocked by Malfoy’s indignation on behalf of Alabamian muggles to be angry.

He recovers quickly.

“What? _No._ The whole point of this was making sure _no one_ gets hurt. _Anyone._ I’ve been careful. I was chained up the last two times.I have the whole place warded. And I—took other precautions as well. Besides, I’ll have the lab running by the next full moon. It’ll be fine.”

“It—god help us, you really are stupid.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Harry says.

“You can’t just _teach yourself_ how to brew a wolfsbane potion in a month’s time from a _book_ ,” Malfoy snarls, like Harry has personally offended not only him but all of his pointy ancestors.

“It takes delicacy and precision and _nuance_. A book will tell you when to harvest the aconite but not _how._ A book won’t tell you that if you crush the stems before chopping the leaves you can accidentally double the potency. Or that if you add a few drops of lavender it will improve the taste. Or if you _mistakenly_ add the orchid before the dittany or use a stainless steel knife instead of a silver one you could _kill_ the drinker of the potion. You can hardly expect—”

“Hold on,” Harry says. “Have _you_ made a wolfsbane potion before?”

Malfoy immediately stops talking.

“I mean,” Harry says. “That doesn’t just sound, uh, theoretical. What you were just saying.”

Malfoy stands up a little straighter, like he’s bracing himself for something.

“I have.”

“And it worked?”

Malfoy crosses his arms. He looks like a scrawny, haughty, albino pigeon.

“Of _course_.”

“Could _you_ teach me, then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.” He stands, and it’s a shaky, frankly embarrassing, movement. “Come remove the lumber from my vehicle, please. I have places to be.”

“I’ll pay you,” Harry says.

Malfoy pauses.

“How much?”

“How much will it take?”

Malfoy opens his mouth and then closes it again.

He considers the barn with sudden, sharp, interest.

“I won’t teach you how to make it,” he says slowly, “But I will make the potion for you myself every month provided you give me access to your grow space and your potions lab for my own projects.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “ _You_ want to make potions?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to make?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“It is if you’re going to hurt someone.”

Draco laughs and it is a terrible, ugly, thing.

He runs a hand through his lank hair.

“I’ll swear an unbreakable vow that I won’t hurt anyone, if you’d like,” he says.

Despite himself, Harry feels suddenly guilty.

“No. No, that’s fine. Alright.”

“Alright?” Malfoy glances up, fingers still caught distractedly in his hair.

“Yeah. Alright. We have a deal.”

“Oh.” He drops his arms. “Well. In that case. Bring me a tape measure.”

“What?”

“If you need a wolfsbane potion in twenty-nine days then we need a working laboratory within a week’s time. Preferably less. Tape measure?”

Harry summons one from the sawhorse and passes it over.

***

They don’t finish the laboratory in a week, but they get close.

The biggest problem is that Harry, it turns out, is _very bad_ at building grow rooms and potion labs without supervision. Except Malfoy is constantly working at his actual job and thus Harry is mostly left to his own devices during daylight. After the second evening in row in which Draco arrives and then proceeds to make Harry undo all the work he’d proudly accomplished over the last ten hours, Harry stops working in the potions-barn at all unless Draco is present. Instead, he turns his attention to the home-barn and kitchen appliances and wall construction and hoping the loft extension he’s creating is actually weight-bearing.

But insomnia coupled with a constant urge to _move_ and _do_ and _make_ means those projects are finished relatively quickly and then Harry finds himself at loose ends.

The third day, Harry picks up Malfoy from work.

Malfoy mentioned he’d been borrowing Billy’s husband’s truck, and if there are deliveries he has to wait until Lavon has completed them before Malfoy can take the vehicle to Harry’s.

_Harry_ has a perfectly serviceable car he can use any time he wants, though, and he’s impatient, so he just. Shows up. At 3pm on Wednesday.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy says tightly when Harry opens the shop door. Malfoy is half-way through taking off his green apron with the white “Drake” name-tag pinned to the chest. “Can I help you?”

“Afternoon,” Billy adds distractedly. She’s frowning down at the register, glasses on, poking at the keys with more resignation than hope.

“Afternoon,” Harry says, watching as Malfoy folds his apron and stows it under the counter. “I came to pick you up.”

Billy abruptly loses interest in the register.

Malfoy’s expressions says he’d very much like to cause Harry pain.

“I’ve been assisting Mr. Potter with some of his renovations,” Malfoy tells Billy.

Billy looks doubtful.

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, “no manual labor. Mal—Drake just tells me what to do. He’s got a good brain for engineering.”

Billy’s expression clears.

“He’s a smart cookie,” she agrees. “You make sure he keeps hydrated if you’re doing any work outside, though. Humidity sure ain’t kind to the boy. Stand him on the porch in the sun for ten minutes and he wilts like a begonia.”

Malfoy makes a soft harried noise under his breath.

“I’ll make sure to keep that in mind, ma’am,” Harry says seriously.

“I need to use the facilities, Potter,” Malfoy interrupts, “Would you be so kind as to wait for me in the car?”

“Nonsense,” Billy says. “Mr. Potter can wait right here with me. Do you want some tea, sweetheart? I just made a fresh pitcher.”

Harry accepts.

Draco rolls his eyes and disappears into the bathroom, elegantly, and full of spite.

Harry tries not to smile too widely at his retreating back.

After a relatively horrifying shock at what constitutes “tea,” in Alabama, Harry finds himself in the driver’s seat of a car filled with faint country music on the radio and the smell of Draco Malfoy.

It’s silent.

“So,” Harry says. “Billy seems nice.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees.

Harry waits, but it seems nothing more is forthcoming.

“How did you find the job?”

“Luck.”

Harry consciously takes a slow breath.

“Oh?”

Malfoy throws him an irritated glance.

“The day I portkeyed through, I walked down the high street and asked every open business if they were hiring. Billy was the first person who said yes.”

Harry is more than happy with that amount of exposition, but after a moment, Malfoy continues:

“She thought I was an addict, at first. Said she wouldn’t hire me unless I took a drug test. I hadn’t the faintest what she was talking about. Did you know that muggles inject chemicals directly into their veins to get high?”

“Yes?”

“She made me show her my arms. But I was—I suppose the way I acted about the—” he cups his right hand around his left forearm, where Harry knows the Dark Mark sits under his shirt sleeve.

At first, Harry had thought the long-sleeved, collared, white shirt Malfoy constantly wears was part of a required uniform. Now, knowing Billy and her own affection for Harley Davidson T-shirts, he wonders if it’s a choice.

“What?” Harry prompts.

“She seemed to think I was part of a gang. That I fell ill and—how did she phrase it?—had a… _come to Jesus moment_. And now I’m reformed and ashamed and run away from my old life.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“She’s not entirely wrong, I suppose,” Malfoy says, quiet and rough and possibly not really meant for Harry to hear.

Harry doesn’t know how to respond.

The rest of the ride is silent.

They finish the scaffolding for the four separate grow spaces that day and install the reservoir and pump system in two of them. When they test it, there are no leaks and everything works just as Malfoy said it would, which Malfoy is annoyingly smug about right up until Harry asks if he’d like to stay for dinner.

He doesn’t mean to.

It’s just, it’s long after dark and Harry is getting really hungry and he says they’ll need to eat before he drives Malfoy home.

It doesn’t occur to him until he’s already extended the invitation that it is, in fact, an invitation.

Draco goes very still where he’s leaned over the drip manifold of the closest irrigation system.

“I mean,” Harry says. “If you want to. I don’t have much. I’ve mostly been eating eggs and beans on toast. But I also have, uh. Milk. And tea. And…cereal?”

Which is how Harry finds himself sitting on the concrete floor of his mostly-refurbished barn-house eating Corn Flakes and scrambled eggs with Draco Malfoy.

“Have you considered furniture?” Draco asks.

Harry admittedly hasn’t.

He has a mattress in the left-hand side loft and a working bathtub, sink and toilet walled off beneath the loft. There’s a four-burner stove and a retro refrigerator and a second sink along the kitchen wall. There are four sets of mugs, plates, bowls, spoons, and cutlery stacked on the shelf he’s installed over the butcher block counter.

He feels like he’s done a pretty good job of the whole. Adult. Housing. Thing.

Then again—Harry glances around the wide, clean, but empty, space—normal people do tend to have tables. Chairs. Sofas. Rugs and dressers and…things.

Harry is distinctly lacking in _things._

Aside from the old spell books and an assortment of clothing in his trunk upstairs, Harry is mostly thing-less.

He thinks about the eclectic, cluttered, warmth of the Weasley’s home. The knickknacks and cushions and busy patterns and crowded walls.

Malfoy might be right.

“Where would I find a sofa around here, you think?”

Malfoy looks reluctantly stymied at that.

“Maybe I should ask Billy.”

“Do _not_ ask Billy,” Malfoy says. “I’ve seen her living room and it certainly does not bear emulating”

“Well. Ikea delivers pretty much everywhere over here, right?

Malfoy considers him with narrowed eyes. “You’re trying to upset me, aren’t you?”

He might be.

Harry washes their dishes and Malfoy dries and puts them away which is a kindness Harry finds both unexpected and suspicious.

As Malfoy reaches to stack their bowls on the shelf above the sink, Harry’s attention sort of absently moves down the slope of his narrow back, following the notched landscape of his spine. Lean as he was before, Malfoy used to have a rather nice arse. Objectively speaking. It’s not that Harry was ever _looking_ , but quidditch trousers didn’t leave much to the imagination and—anyway. The point is, Malfoy certainly _doesn’t_ have a nice arse anymore. It’s a shame, really.

Harry wonders, not for the first time, why Malfoy is so bloody skinny. Sickly. Why the cough he has seems like it’s a part of him.

“Potter,” Malfoy says.

“Hmm?”

“Can I help you with something? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were staring at my bum.”

“You don’t have a bum anymore,” Harry points out.

Draco’s face does a thing.

“Yes, thank you. I’m well aware. Can you please take me back to the shop, now?”

Harry drives Malfoy back to Daughters after a brief argument about where Malfoy lives which Harry loses spectacularly.

“You’re not living at the shop, are you?” he asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why am I taking you _back to the shop_?”

“Because that’s where you _kidnapped_ me and now that you’re done with me, returning me to the scene of the crime seems decent, don’t you think?”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Harry says, exasperated.

“Would you care for a list?”

They don’t talk after that.

Harry rolls down the windows in the car because, once the sun goes down, it’s actually getting sort of cool in the evenings, and the wind, coupled with the radio, makes the silence between them a little less awkward. Maybe.

“So,” Harry says, once he’s parked in front of Daughters. “I’ll pick you up again tomorrow? At 3?” With the engine off, the roar of insect noise nearly blots out everything else.

“Fine,” Malfoy says.

“The cicadas are loud tonight,” Harry says. Because it’s something to say.

“Kadydids,” Malfoy says.

“What?”

“No one calls them cicadas, here. They call them Kadydids.”

“Oh. Kadydids. You know, my first night here, I thought I was going crazy when the sun went down and the trees started screaming. I had to google what was happening on my phone.”

Malfoy says nothing.

“Well,” Harry says.

Malfoy gets out of the car.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says tightly.

“Thank you for helping me with my—uh. Project.”

Neither of them moves: Harry with his hands still on the steering wheel, Malfoy with his arms crossed, ducked a little to see Harry through the open passenger window.

“You can leave now, Potter,” he says.

Harry rolls his eyes and starts the engine.

When he gets home, he kneels in front of his trunk and fishes out the soft, familiar, fabric of his invisibility cloak.

It’s been a while since he’s had a mystery solve.

***

After a leisurely breakfast the following morning, Harry apparates to a secluded section of woods half a mile from the high street, wraps himself in the invisibility cloak, and walks to Daughters. He can see Malfoy through the windows, talking, surprisingly animatedly, to a tall sun-burned woman. He looks a little healthier, maybe, Harry thinks.

Not that it matters.

Harry walks to the back of the building, past the large covered patio with stacks of plastic-wrapped lumber and bags of fertilizer. There’s a little sunny field of ankle-high wild-flower-spotted grass, a tractor that may or may not be operational, an abandoned trailer home, and then just—trees.

Harry considers his options.

He retrieves his wand from his pocket, careful to keep the cloak pulled closed with his opposite hand, and then walks in a circle next to the tractor, casting several layers of _silentium_ and then a 24-hour holding spell. He considers the pocket of silence he’s created with satisfaction, steps inside it, and then disapparates to the house. He has a glass of water, then apparates back.

He stands there for several minutes, but no one comes to investigate any loud cracking noises.

He disapparates again with a smile.

The afternoon proceeds similarly to the previous day.

Harry picks Malfoy up at 3 after a short, painfully polite, interaction with Billy.

They finish the hydroponics systems for all four grow stations and get most of the light rigging finished and then have another, mostly silent, dinner of cereal and scrambled eggs.

Harry offers to apparate Malfoy back to Daughters since no muggles will be around that time of night and his car is running low on petrol.

Malfoy accepts, though he looks at Harry with obvious distrust as he curls his slender fingers around the crook of Harry’s elbow.

Harry leaves Draco in the parking lot of Daughters, disappirates home, throws on the invisibility cloak and then immediately apparates back into his pre-made pocket of silence.

He’s about to jog around the front of the building when Malfoy appears, walking straight toward him.

Harry freezes, resisting the urge to duck behind the tractor because he’s _wearing an invisibility cloak._

Malfoy quickly passes him, which doesn’t make any sense and continues not making sense right up until Malfoy stops in front of the rust-spotted, practically-more-brown-than-silver-under-a-blanket-of-pollen, Airstream trailer.

He fishes a lighter out of his pocket and lights the two bamboo citronella torches on either side of the threshold.

He goes inside.

He leaves the door open.

Harry moves to stand at the partially-rotted steps, and looks inside.

The trailer is old but well-kept—wood-paneled with floral curtains and a tiny formica countertop.

There’s a lofted bed on one side, its rumpled patchwork quilt lit by a solar camping lantern hanging from the ceiling.

The other side appears to be a pocket bathroom.

Where Malfoy has just turned on the sink.

Harry watches as Malfoy unbuttons his shirt, as he shifts the fabric off his shoulders and then rinses it in the basin, as he wrings the shirt out, lean cords of muscle shifting just beneath the surface of his pale, pale, skin. Harry watches as he hangs the shirt on a piece of fishing line strung just inside the open doorway. When Malfoy reaches for the button on his trousers, Harry closes his eyes. Because Harry realizes he has just abruptly transitioned from investigator to voyeur.

When the shower turns on a minute later, Harry opens his eyes again.

The doorway is empty, Malfoy’s damp clothes swinging gently in the night wind.

There’s no heat, though.

No steam fogging the window or humidity in the air.

Harry stands there and listens to Malfoy— _Draco Malfoy_ —take a cold shower, in a derelict 20-foot trailer that he’s apparently living in, feeling oddly displaced.

He knew that most of the Malfoy estate had been taken as reparations after the trials. But Narcissa should still have—well. Maybe not. It occurs to Harry that Sirius left _him_ the Black estate. He could have sworn Draco had a trust that the Ministry couldn’t touch, but if that’s the case, why is Draco living _here_ , looking like a corpse?

It occurs to Harry, with sudden, empathetic, urgency, that maybe Malfoy can’t afford to eat. Which would explain why he’s made only minimal disparaging remarks about Harry’s food offerings and completely cleaned his plate—or bowl, as the case may be—the past two nights.

Except, even in the little time he’s spent with her, Harry knows Billy wouldn’t just let Malfoy _starve_. Unless she doesn’t know. Maybe Malfoy showed up, thin and sickly and only shortly removed from a stay at Azkaban while awaiting trial, and she didn’t know what he looked like healthy. Maybe Malfoy is too proud to say anything, now.

Harry tries to remember what happened to Narcissa. He spoke in her favor at the trial. He received a thankful letter from her several months ago. But. He’s ashamed to say he doesn’t know where she is or what she’s doing, now. Maybe Draco is sending her all his money?

The water turns off and Harry doesn’t close his eyes quite fast enough.

He only sees a flash of white deep-ribbed flank and too-lean thigh but it’s—

It reminds Harry, a hollow, aching, familiarity, of the way his own body used to look in the mirror. When, at ten years old, divested of his baggy hand-me-down clothes, the jut of his hip bones meant malnourishment.

He hears a cough, the sound of wet bare feet against metal, fabric on skin, and opens his eyes again to find Malfoy in the open doorway. He’s wearing Slytherin-green pyjamas, monogrammed with DLM on the breast pocket, and he folds himself down, arms around knees, with habitual, tired, grace. The dichotomy, as Malfoy sits, wrapped in emerald silk, watching fireflies with tangled wet hair and goosebumps on his pale skin, makes Harry feel something he isn’t quite sure how to label.

Harry is thankful for the roar of cicadas—katydids— as he makes his escape back to the silent-spelled pocket and disapparates home.

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

When he does sleep, he dreams of chilled, milk-white skin stretched tight over sharp vertebra.

***

Harry is standing on Daughter’s porch when Malfoy flips the door sign to “Open” the following morning.

He watches suspiciously as Harry loads an entire trolley full of food.

“Hermione sent me some recipes to try,” Harry says as Malfoy scans over $200 worth of vegetables and flours and meats.

He’s not lying.

He asked her to send them to him the night before.

“I’m going to try and make shepherd’s pie tonight. Might try my hand at catching some perch from one of the tanks tomorrow. Hermione sent a spell that guts and debones fresh fish along with a breading recipe.”

“How domestic,” Malfoy says. “But it’s unlikely I’ll be able to join you tomorrow, so I will unfortunately miss your…fishing endeavors.”

“Oh. Why?”

Malfoy’s face goes pinched.

“I have another job delivering packages on Fridays and Saturdays. Sometimes it takes most of the day, depending on where the deliveries are.”

“But we need—“ Harry stops. “I could help.”

Draco pauses, a bag of red potatoes in one hand.

“Pardon?”

“I could help you. With the deliveries. I’m definitely better equipped to be lugging parcels up driveways than you are. No offense.”

Judging by his facial expression, Malfoy takes offense.

“Besides, if people aren’t around I could just levitate the packages to the letterbox or whatever. You wouldn’t even have to stop the car. We can knock a few hours off your time and spend it installing the new lights. They’re still supposed to come in today, right?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “By 4pm. I checked the tracking this morning. But—no. I don’t need help with—“

“I know _you_ don’t need help,” Harry interrupts. “But _I_ do. I can’t install the lights by myself so I’ll just be sitting around with nothing to do while you take forever hobbling up people’s driveways. Let me come with you. You use Lavon’s truck, right? What time do you usually leave?”

“I—yes. Eight am.”

“Great. We’ll plan for that, then.”

Harry pays and makes his escape before Draco can object.

“I’ll see you at three!”

Harry packs the $200 worth of shopping into the boot of his car, food that he has ostensibly just bought because he wants to _feed_ Draco fucking Malfoy, and wonders what has happened to his life.

Harry spends the morning ruining one shepherd’s pie and the afternoon successfully completing a second. He returns to Daughters at 2:59pm, compliments Billy on her new haircut, demurs when she offers him tea, and then hurries Draco out to the car.

Harry lights a cigarette while waiting at the single traffic light in Marian.

Draco looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“Smoking,” Harry says. “I didn’t get a chance to have a rebellious youth since I was busy killing Dark Lords and all. Thought I’d try it out.”

“I remain confounded by the extent of your idiocy. Do you know what is _in_ a cigarette?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Piss off. I’m hardly at risk for cancer. I’m a werewolf, remember?”

“And _I’ve_ got asthma. I don’t give a fuck if you want to poison yourself, Potter, but kindly do it on your own time.”

Harry just stares at him for a moment.

The light turns green.

“You— can wizards even _have_ asthma?”

“No,” Draco says, one syllable of pure acid. “They can’t.”

“Oh. Right. I didn’t—sorry.” Harry banishes the cigarette. Then the whole pack for good measure.

Draco doesn’t appear appeased.

“Is that really necessary?” he snaps.

“I don’t—what?”

“Throwing around wandless magic like that.”

“Oh. Sorry? Wait. So. Does magic prevent you from having health problems? That doesn’t—I’ve got loads of magic and I still get colds. _Everyone_ got colds at Hogwarts the beginning of spring term. Even professors.”

Malfoy looks at him like he’s a lost cause.

“Granger must despair of you,” he says.

“Often,” Harry agrees.

He wants to press the subject except they come upon a bunch of cows in the road and Harry has to use his patronus to convince them to move along and then enough time has elapsed that he’s not sure how to bring the subject up again.

They work. They argue. They test. They troubleshoot. They eat a shepherds pie that turned out surprisingly good. Draco has asecond helping which gives Harry a disconcerting thrill.

It occurs to Harry, after he’s left Draco in Daughters car park that night, holding tinfoil-wrapped leftovers and looking baffled about it, that he hadn’t heard Draco cough all afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> I finished my grading (not a single student failed! Yay!) and summer has officially started. In other news, I was approved to begin my fellowship next semester (a year early!) which is both exciting and terrifying because it means if I can get this little dissertation thing finished, I'll have a Dr. in front of my name this time next year. Wild.
> 
> Also, I'm heading to DC on Thursday for the Escape Velocity conference so expect a lot of pictures of Deacon exploring DC and looking Very Academic on Tumblr this weekend. See you in 2 weeks!


	4. Chapter 4

Potter leaks magic.

There’s no other way Draco can describe it.

Standing next to him is a special kind of relief—a sort of stillness, an ease, that makes Draco’s body feel just a little less like it’s falling apart. Being in the same room as Potter for a few hours is enough for Draco’s skin to feel less tight, but _eating_ with Potter, knees practically touching as they sit cross-legged on the floor, washing dishes together, fingers brushing with the transfer of cups and cutlery—the feeling then is something akin to a potions-induced high.

Driving with Potter in the passenger seat of Lavon’s truck, knowing he’ll be there, less than a metre away, for the next several hours, is both thrilling and… slightly problematic.

Because Draco is getting greedy.

If a few hours spent in the evenings with Potter is enough to give Draco a good night’s sleep, an _entire day_ in close proximity may extend that. And now he’s also starting to wonder what would happen if he touched Potter for a while. Not—not with a purpose, or anything. Nothing untoward. Just. Sustained contact. The accidental brushes of hands are harrowing enough—Potter practically burns with excess magic crackling like static over his skin. Draco can’t stop wondering what would happen if he just laid his palm on Potter’s forearm and left it there. A collection of seconds. Minutes. An hour.

He might feel human again for a _week._

It’s times like these that he wishes he still had access to his ancestral library. Because he doesn’t understand what’s happening and he has…questions.

His driving is also perhaps a little impaired.

He swerves for the sixth time in as many minutes, because he’s glancing at Harry’s hand, only inches from his on the gear shift, and Harry clutches at the door handle like their demise is imminent.

“Do you actually have a driving licence?” Potter asks.

Draco regrets agreeing to this farce already.

“You’re not an Auror anymore,” Draco points out. “Even if you were, I think this is rather outside your jurisdiction.”

“Yes, but a licence is usually a good indicator of whether or not a person _knows how to drive_.”

Draco digs into his pocket and then proffers the laminated square to Potter.

He does not shiver as their fingers touch with the transfer.

Potter holds it up to the light, then leans in close to inspect it.

“It’s a good fake,” he says, handing it back. “I’ll give you that.”

Draco is admittedly a little put out. Blaise had assured him it was perfect.

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But thanks for confirming.”

Draco is now more than a little put out.

“Piss off.”

Potter grins.

“Also, I’m assuming you don’t have a muggle birth certificate much less the proper immigration paperwork for a driver’s license, _Drake Black_.”

Oh. Right.

“What about you?” Draco asks. “Do _you_ have a licence for that unnecessary vehicle you own?”

“It’s a vintage Mustang,” Potter says, as if that means anything. “…and I also have a good fake.”

“I believe there’s a phrase about pots and kettles that might be useful at this point,” Draco says.

“Well. I’m not an Auror anymore,” Harry reminds him.

Draco laughs.

It doesn’t come out quite right, possibly because it’s been so long since he had a reason for laughter, but Potter doesn’t seem to notice. He unrolls the list of parcels and addresses and flattens it against his thighs, poking at the wrinkled paper with his wand. And then, annoyingly proficient wizard that he is, Harry casts a semi-transparent map onto the windscreen.

“Alright,” he says, and a scattered selection of dots appears on the map. “We’ve got twenty-three packages in four counties to deliver. I estimate we can do it in five hours. Maybe less.”

He’s grinning a little, bottom lip tucked between his teeth, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m highly trained.”

“In _parcel delivery_?”

“Thank you, Harry,” Potter says in an affected voice that sounds absolutely nothing at all like Draco’s. “It’s so kind of you to assist me.”

Draco purposely lets the truck’s outside tyres drop off the road for a moment and Potter fumbles his wand into the floorboard so he can grab at the door handle again.

“Git,” he mutters.

Draco smiles.

****

They finish the final delivery two minutes before the five-hour mark and Potter is insufferable for the drive back to Marian.

Potter’s assistance certainly saved Draco several hours of painful work, but if a smug Potter is the cost—

Well. Alright. It _is_ worth it. But he doesn’t have to tell Potter that.

“I’m supposed to Facetime with Hermione tonight,” Harry says. “That’s the video thing where—“

“I know,” Draco says. “Billy Facetimes her daughter almost every afternoon.”

“Right. Well. We’re planning to talk about ordering the first round of ingredients for this month’s potion. And setting up the climate spells. You still think that’s the best way to handle things, right? Rather than those muggle tent-things?”

“Yes,” Draco says. “I thought Granger agreed.”

“She does. But I wondered if you might want to stay late and talk to her.”

Draco swallows.

“I don’t want people know where I am. I’ve told you this.”

“I know, but she wouldn’t tell anyone. And I think she’s starting to get suspicious. I’m making a lot more progress than she expected.”

“It’s not my problem you’re an imbecile.”

“Malfoy.”

“If you tell Granger, she’ll tell Weasley. And he’ll tell the whole damn Weasel army who will no doubt descend en masse to protect you from my evil influence.”

“They wouldn’t.”

“Provided you remain silent, agreed.”

Harry sighs.

“I don’t like keeping secrets.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “So says the werewolf hiding in Alabama.”

Harry makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Alright, arsehole. I don’t like keeping secrets from my _friends_.”

“Of course.”

“But you’re asking me to.”

“I am.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I won’t say anything.”

“Thank you.”

Frankly, Draco is shocked Potter didn’t telephone Granger the moment they first saw each other at Daughter’s. He finds it unlikely Potter is actually capable of keeping long-term secrets from the rest of the Golden Trio, but he’ll take it while it lasts.

“Well. Is there anything you want me to talk to her about?” Harry asks. “Anything we need to order? You’d said something about specific cauldrons you’ll need, yesterday.”

“Yes. I’ll write it down for you.”

Harry looks relieved.

“Great. So. Lights today and start the lab tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Why Potter finds the need to be so _chatty_ , even after hours of conversation, is beyond him.

“I do have to work, tomorrow,” Draco says. “So we won’t have much time.”

“Deliveries again, or Daughters?”

“Both. Only a few packages in the morning, but Billy and Lavon have lunch plans with family in Lewisville, so I’ll have to mind the shop from twelve to three.”

“Well I’ll help you again in the morning and then maybe you’ll have time to come look at things and…give me some homework to do while you’re at Daughters?”

Draco considers arguing but—

Doesn’t.

Even though he could easily give Potter the same instructions that night.

“Alright.”

***

Draco makes the mistake of mentioning Aaron McAllister while they’re eating dinner. Well. He doesn’t mention him by name, just his ilk.

The grow station lights are all installed, running overnight to make sure there are no issues, and they’re eating something called “Cornbread Salad”—a recipe from Billy—that is truly a bizarre amalgamation of ingredients but tastes…surprisingly acceptable.

Draco is sitting on the cool concrete in front of a fan, stomach full, one hand holding up his hair so the sweat on the back of his neck can dry, and for the first time that he can remember in the last year, there is not a single part of him that is actively hurting.

Perhaps this is what causes his uncharacteristic garrulousness.

“So,” Potter says. “You don’t normally work at Daughters on Saturdays?”

“No.”

_And thank Merlin for that._

He must make a face because Potter, unperceptive as he is, sits up a little straighter, eyes narrowing.

“What? Do you not like working at Daughters?”

“No. No, it’s—Billy and Lavon are very kind. I just don’t particularly enjoy working there on Saturdays.”

“Why not?”

“Because during the week my customers are primarily housewives and pensioners. The weekend you get a much higher percentage of men. Saturdays are the worst because they all come in on the way to the lake for beer and tackle and scratchcards.”

Harry looks at him blankly.

“And that’s…bad?”

Draco drops his hair and finger-combs it flat. He gestures to himself with no little amount of resignation.

“Look at me, Potter. Think about where we are. I’m a thin, long-haired, perceivedly effeminate, foreigner, with no chance of growing a beard and no interest in firing a weapon. How do you think the general male population views me?”

Potter still looks lost.

Draco sighs.

“Apparently, good hygiene and an elementary grasp of grammar immediately labels you a shirt-lifter, here.”

That’s a generalization, he knows. Lavon is college-educated and takes better care of his cuticles than Billy does. Lavon is also six foot tall, over fourteen stone, and dresses like a lumberjack, though.

“Oh,” Harry says. And then, a moment later, “ _Oh_. That’s—have people _hurt_ you?”

And he’s suddenly half to his feet, looking murderous, as if he might go find them and enact justice this very moment, should Draco give him names.

An odd compulsion, coming from Potter, considering Draco’s chest is covered in a fine crosshatch of pale scars that Harry himself inflicted.

“No,” Draco says, “no one has hurt me,” and Harry slides back down to the floor.

“There are a few that aren’t particularly kind,” Draco qualifies, “but no one has physically touched me. I can take juvenile insults and embarrassingly cliched threats. I’d just prefer not to.”

“People have _threatened_ you?”

Jesus. What is Potter’s problem?

“Yes. Present company included,” he notes.

Potter goes very, very still.

It shouldn’t be stillness that reminds Draco, suddenly and unsettlingly, that Potter is a werewolf now and it is best not to upset werewolves. But Potter’s stillness is inhuman in its completeness. The calm before the storm and all that.

Potter appears to make a conscious effort to relax.

“I’m sorry. For everything that happened, before. Especially the—in the bathroom, that day. I mean. Obviously you’re at fault for plenty of it but. I apologise for hurting you.”

It is disconcertingly earnest.

“Oh. Well. I apologise as well. Of course.”

“Right.”

Draco stands and moves to the sink with his plate. “If you’re going to call Granger—”

“Yeah. No, yeah. Okay. I should take you home.”

“Thank you.”

They do the washing up in silence and Potter apparates Draco to Daughters without arguing over where he’s living. It would be suspicious if not for the fact that Potter’s entire demeanor is currently baffling.

Draco doesn’t think much of the conversation until he’s an hour into his shift the following day and Aaron McAllister enters the shop. He’s with two of his standard fishing accomplices, Smith and Marx, and they take their time selecting alcoholic beverages and bait while talking loudly about their various manly pursuits and the poor girl that McAllister has evidently convinced to fornicate with him.

Draco is glad Ben Ward and his son left as the three men came in.

Ward is the good but hot-headed sort that would take exception to their language about women and feel the need to set a good example for his son. Draco would rather not have to clean up after a fight.

He preemptively unlocks the cigarette case and hopes no one else arrives within the next ten minutes.

Sure enough, when they get to the counter, McAllister has Draco retrieve a selection of tobacco products, making him pull dusty packs of cigarellos he has no intention of buying from the far left corner purely because he knows Draco will have to stand on a stool and lean awkwardly under the case’s door—inevitably bashing his head on the glass at some point— to reach them.

It’s all very petty, compared to their initial reactions, but Draco is relatively certain Billy or Lavon or both had a word with McAllister after the incident the prior month.

And then the bell rings.

Draco turns, automatically, and—sure enough—bashes his head on the glass.

It’s Potter.

“Afternoon,” Potter says, hands in pockets.

He looks like he used to: head down, shoulders curved in.

His hair is getting long, Draco realises, falling in his face and over his eyes and it’s disconcerting, how deceptively meek his posture is.

Harry leans against the far end of the counter, out of the way, but decidedly present.

McAllister looks him up and down, then glances back at the Smith and Marx.

Shit.

“Afternoon,” McAllister says. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

“Harry,” Harry says, extending a hand.

McAllister doesn’t accept it.

“Where are you from? he asks.

“London,” Harry says. He smiles a little. He drops his hand.

“No but where are you _from,_ ” McAllister insists.

“Well I was born in Godric’s Hollow. The West Country, England. If that’s what you mean.”

Everyone present is aware that’s not what he means.

“Nowhere posh like Wiltshire,” Harry continues, giving Draco a nod. “But a decent enough part of town. The house wasn’t at fault for the people in it, anyway.”

McAllister glances at his boys, then back at Harry with a confused expression.

Draco is admittedly confused himself.

“If you mean to ask what my specific genetic heritage is, I’m afraid I can’t tell you, seeing as I’m an orphan. Where are _you_ from?” Harry asks pleasantly.

“What are you doing here?” McAllister asks.

“I came to have a word with Drake about ordering some begonias.”

Draco valiantly stifles a laugh.

It turns into a bit of a cough, but that’s standard procedure.

“I mean in Marian,” McAllister says.

“Oh,” Harry says, feigning surprise. “Living, I suppose. I just bought a bit of land”

“The Henwill’s old place,” Draco adds. Because he knows it will piss McAllister off.

“That’s a lot of land,” Smith says.

“Yes, well,” Harry says. “I’ve got a lot of money. And I liked the creek. It burbles.”

Marx mouths “burbles?” as McAllister crosses his arms.

“What is it you do, Mr. Potter?”

“Whatever I want, mostly.”

He straightens, no longer leaning against the counter, and the change is—Draco can only describe Harry’s posture as suddenly and frighteningly feral.

All three of the men take what is likely an involuntary step back.

“You sure like asking questions,” Harry says.

“Just curious,” McAllister mutters, significantly less confident.

“Well,” Harry says, “I’ve got business to discuss with Drake. Begonias. As I said. Are you finished, here?”

Apparently they are.

They pay for their selections without any of the typical ribbing, and are out the door within minutes.

“You’re two hours early,” Draco says once they’re gone.

“I wanted to talk about begonias,” Harry says.

“In October?”

It occurs to Draco, suddenly, that he didn’t hear Harry’s car.

He leans forward over the counter to look through the front windows, but, no. It’s not in the lot. He also didn’t hear Harry apparate. And his timing is more than a little suspicious.

Draco shifts so he’s sitting on the counter and then slides off the opposite side, moving to stand in front of Potter. Potter who is suddenly looking uncertain.

“What are you doing?” Potter asks.

“I’m wondering the same of you.”

He considers Potter’s posture and, without really thinking, grabs one of his stupidly muscular forearms, preventing him from twisting away when Draco moves behind him.

There’s something tucked in the back waistband of Potter’s jeans.

Something that’s rucked up his shirt.

Something that looks like nothing.

Draco’s fingers close around fabric and pull.

“What the hell,” he says a moment later, holding an invisibility cloak.

“Look,” Harry says.

“You—have you been here _the whole time_?” Draco says.

Harry doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

“Where? _Why_?”

“In the gardening section. I just. You’d said sometimes people bother you.”

“So you decided you’d come sit invisibly in a muggle shop, flagrantly disregarding the statute, in case you needed to intervene should someone _bother_ me?”

“Er—yes?”

“You recognise that _Savior_ isn’t actually your title,” Draco snarls.

“Oh piss off. I was trying—”

“ _You_ piss off. I’m working. And you’re—how did you even get here? I didn’t hear you apparate.”

“I’ve got a silent apparition point,” Harry mutters. “Over by your trailer. But I didn’t—“

“ _My_ trailer,” Draco repeats.

Potter closes his eyes.

“Fuck. Malfoy. That’s not—”

“So you know. That I’m living there. You’ve been spying on me other times as well, then?”

Draco’s throat feels unacceptably tight.

His eyes are hot.

He throws the cloak at Potter who catches it awkwardly.

“Couldn’t help but fall into old habits, I guess. Malfoy must be up to something. Might as well follow him around. Watch as wakes himself up coughing and cries over money he doesn’t have and hangs up his undergarments to dry after hand-washing. Excellent. Well done, Potter.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to make sure—”

“What? That I wasn’t secretly torturing muggles? Trading dark artifacts?”

“No. _No._ I wanted to make sure that you had a home to _go_ to. And it was just one time and I won’t do it again. I swear. I just. Wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Fuck off, Potter. I’ve no interest in your fake nobility.”

Potter’s nostrils flare.

“Fine.”

He throws on the cloak.

“Pretend I’m the bad guy.”

“How could I _ever_ do that?” Draco says waspishly. “You’re the Chosen One. You can do no wrong. We’ve firmly established that _I’m_ the bad guy.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Potter says, and then, as if they aren’t currently embroiled in an argument, “I’ll be back to pick you up at three.”

Draco doesn’t have a chance to object because the front door opens with a jingle and several pensioners, dressed in their fishing regalia, enter the shop with friendly calls of hello.

By the time Draco has finished greeting them, Potter is gone.

Or nearly gone.

Draco sees the back door of the shop open quietly, seemingly of its own accord, and then, before it closes again, there’s Potter’s face, looking around the door from the other side.

“Three,” Potter mouths.

Malfoy discreetly flips him two fingers.

The last thing he sees before Potter pulls the cloak back over his head are Potter’s wide, stupidly pretty, green eyes.

Not pretty. Ugly.

Ugly green.

Like mould.

Repulsive.

***

Things are tense over the following weeks, but they manage to fill the planters with an assortment of already mature plants for immediate use and seedlings for future use without shouting at each other again.

This is likely because they’ve mostly stopped talking to each other.

Which is fine.

Preferable, even.

Potter’s chatter was becoming an annoyance, anyway.

The potions lab is more of a work in progress, but Draco makes do.

Instead of building things, Draco now spends his evenings moving between grow space and potions lab, slowly adding ingredients to the wolfsbane potion for Potter and making blood replenishing, pain relieving, potions for himself.

Despite the fact that they’re not really talking, Potter continues to feed Draco.

Draco continues to let him.

He isn’t entirely certain why Potter keeps inviting him back to the barn-house at night to sit on the floor and sample increasingly more complicated, and usually surprisingly palatable suppers.

Draco suspects Potter is using him as some sort of recipe test subject seeing as Potter has amassed a frankly startling number of both wizard and muggle cookbooks and now has _opinions_ about proving and yeast and cookware.

Perhaps Potter has found some sort of joy in cooking. He’d been spending quite a bit of time with a book of a similar title

Regardless, the draw of Potter’s magical overflow paired with Draco’s thankful grocery budget is more than enough incentive to continue accepting the invitations.

Which results in Draco eating a second portion of Coq au vin the night before the full moon while Potter paces in his—living room? It’s still just a big empty concrete space. Though he has, at least, acquired a rather nice, shaggy, rug.

Draco wishes Potter would sit down, preferably next to him, but apparently, this close to the full moon, stillness isn’t an option.

He has, at least, been very attentive to refilling Draco’s tea.

“So,” Potter says, and Draco has to crane his neck a bit to see him as he’s currently in the kitchen area.

“Who taught you how to make this potion anyway?”Potter asks. “It’s not exactly on Hogwarts’ curriculum.”

His arms are crossed and he’s looking at the blue mason jar of wolfsbane brew, waiting under a statis spell,on the counter.

“Severus,” Draco says.

“Snape?”

“Yes.”

“You call him Severus?”

“He was my godfather.”

“But why?”

“I imagine because he was one of my parent’s closest friends.”

“Not— _no_.” Harry strides purposefully towards the windows, then just as purposefully away from them. “I meant why did he teach you to make a wolfsbane potion?”

Draco shrugs. It’s a terrible, pedestrian gesture, but needs must.

Potter is not dissuaded. “Did you have a friend who was a werewolf?”

The flinch is automatic and impossible to hide. “No.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh,” Potter turns on his heel again. “Greyback. He was—they were all at the manor, weren’t they?”

“What part of _I don’t want to talk about it_ is lost on you, Potter?”

“Right. Okay. Sorry. I’m just nervous. Do you want to stay tomorrow?”

“Stay tomorrow,” Draco repeats.

“For sunset.”

“ _No_ ,” It comes out, perhaps, a little more loud, a little more horrified, than he intended. “No. No thank you. No.”

“What if it the potion doesn’t work?”

“It will work.”

Potter runs both hands through his already mussed hair and Draco thinks, absently, that Potter looks rather a lot like his uncle’s old Banksian Cockatoo.

He wonders what became of the bird.

“Don’t you want to make _sure_?” Potter presses.

“Even if it doesn’t work, I’ll be useless. No magic, remember?”

“So ask to borrow a gun from Billy. She probably has a few dozen. Then if something goes wrong you can shoot me before I hurt anyone.”

“No.”

“Come on. I know you don’t have plans. Just stay for the sunset. We can chain me up too, and then you could just sit out of range of the chains. If it works and I’m docile you can let me out. If it somehow makes things worse and it looks like I might escape, then you shoot me.”

The fact that Potter can so cavalierly discuss the prospect of his own death is baffling.

“No.”

“But why _not_?”

“Because,” Draco says. “As you so astutely pointed out, Fenrir Greyback lived in my home—had free rein to do nearly _anything_ he wished in my home— for _months_. And just because he was taking a potion that let him keep his faculties while transformed, doesn’t mean he was kind. If I see a wolf with a gun in my hands I’m likely to shoot it on sight whether its docile or not.”

“Oh.”

“And I’d rather not kill the savior of the world in a visceral panic, if it’s all the same to you.”

Potter is silent for several seconds.

“You know,” he says finally, smiling a little, like they’re sharing a joke, “there was a time when you would have welcomed the opportunity to kill me.”

“No there wasn’t,” Draco says quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> I've finished the first draft of my dissertation prologue! I'm giving myself the day off, and then I'm starting Chapter 1 tomorrow. The current plan is to have prologue-chapter 3 finished by Thanksgiving, so I can have the whole shebang (5 chapters) completed by March, so I can have April to prepare for my oral defense, so I can defend the first week in May, so I can walk in spring graduation. A year early. Ha. Haha. Eeek. Anyway. Pray for me.
> 
> That being said, I'm going to try and balance academic writing with "fun" (aka fic) writing so I don't get burnt out--so the update schedule will stay at every other week!
> 
> The EV conference was awesome! I met a lot of cool people, geeked out for 48 straight hours, and even got some good sight-seeing in (Deacon rated his first water-taxi experience 10/10 would smell all the water smells again).
> 
> If you're a student or educator I hope finals went well and you're enjoying the start of summer. See you in two weeks!


	5. Chapter 5

Being fully conscious while also being a wolf would probably be the strangest thing Harry has ever experienced if he hadn't once been fully conscious while also being dead.

He sits up slowly with a rattle of metal and a frankly embarrassing amount of effort because quadruped anatomy is strange and his limbs feel like they’re all going the wrong way.

The lack of thumbs is also distinctly disconcerting.

He leaves off staring at his hands (feet?) when he realizes that Malfoy is outside.

He sort of remembers hearing the truck pull up while he was still writhing around getting furry but fear and pain had rather taken precedence over wondering why Malfoy—who had so staunchly insisted he would not be present—decided to show up anyway.

As far as Harry can tell, Malfoy is standing a few feet from the front door.

His heart is beating very fast.

The fact that Harry can’t see him, but can tell he’s distressed, is apparently a problem worth whining about.

The sound comes out all wrong because his chest and his throat and mouth are shaped all wrong and when he tries to move toward the door, he trips on his own front feet, crashing face-first into the floor.

Perhaps it’s good Malfoy can’t see him.

“Potter,” Malfoy says from outside. “I would appreciate some indication that I haven’t killed you.”

Harry discovers it is very hard to roll your eyes when you are a wolf.

He makes a noise that is supposed to be an affirmative bark but comes out sort of creaky.

“I’m uncertain what that means,” Malfoy says. “Aside from assuring me that you’re not currently dead. It sounds like you may be in the process of dying, however.”

Harry growls and finds that noise comes out just as he intended.

He sits up, slowly, and wishes he’d thought a bit more about his comfort should the potion work, rather than preparing for if the potion didn’t work.

The chains are heavy and constricting. The floor is cold. He’s going to get bored very quickly. And he’s _hungry._

It occurs to him that, if he’s conscious, he might still be able to do wandless magic.

He aims an alohomora at the chains around his neck and the padlock falls with a heavy, anticlimactic, thunk, between his arms. Legs? Whatever.

He shakes off the chains and wobbles his way over to the door.

Coordinating four feet and what seems like an unnecessary amount of torso is difficult.

Also, his mouth tastes funny.

“Potter?” Malfoy says.

Harry pushes his shoulder against the door.

Malfoy strings together a series of colorful curses.

“Well, you’re clearly alive, so I’m leaving. Goodbye.”

Except Harry doesn’t want Malfoy to leave.

Because then he’ll be _alone_.

And the idea of that is so intrinsically terrible that he just sort of, pushes harder at the door, maybe harder than he intended, and he hears the lock outside disengage and then he’s rolling out onto the gravel driveway in an unexpected lurch of movement.

And Malfoy—

Malfoy has fallen down.

He’s pushing himself backwards with his feet, hands in the dirt, and he looks _terrified._

_Oh._ Harry thinks. _Shit._

He drops down onto his elbows, because he feels like he’s pretty big and maybe that will make him less intimidating. And then, on second thought, he rolls over onto his back—belly-up, feet in the air—and, upside-down, looks toward Malfoy hopefully.

_See?_ He thinks. _Look. I am very not scary._

Malfoy makes a very high-pitched noise.

“Potter?” he asks.

Harry wiggles in what he hopes might be taken as affirmation.

Malfoy’s heart slows a bit.

“Are you—you?” he asks.

Harry wiggles again.

“No urges for murder and mayhem? Thirst for blood?”

Harry shakes his head.

“And you’re—you’re not hurt or anything?”

Harry provides another affirmative wiggle.

“Alright, stop. You look ridiculous.”

Harry rolls back over. Shakes. Sneezes.

Malfoy laughs and it sounds a little hysterical.

“This is fine,” he says. “This is normal. And expected. The potion worked. No surprises there. I’m brilliant.”

Harry sneezes again.

There are so many _smells_ outside.

“Well. Good,” Malfoy says. “You’ve clearly retained your faculties. Enjoy your frolicking or what have you. I’ll leave you be, now.”

Draco stands, shakily, and Harry whines, entirely without meaning to.

He makes himself stop immediately.

“What?” Malfoy says.

Harry firmly tells himself to stop being ridiculous.

“Right,” Malfoy says, walking backward. “Well. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

He climbs into the cab of the truck with a concerning amount of haste.

Harry watches him drive away and tries very hard to resist the weird howl-y feeling in his throat.

Clearly his wolf-instincts are defective.

****

Harry runs.

It takes him a while to figure out how, and then it takes him even longer to figure out how to _stop_ without somersaulting a half-dozen times, but once he gets the hang of four legs it’s—he’s—

Harry runs.

And it’s good.

Early October twilight in Alabama is a barrage of bug sounds and animal smells and dark, reaching, shadows. The air gets an edge of chill to it as the stars come out and the moon rises full and bright in a way that leaves his chest aching. He runs until his property ends and then he keeps going. He runs through dry, low-tilled acres of nothing and early winter wheat and overgrown firebreaks between regimented lumber-tree rows.

Autumn-harvest corn stalks lean noisily against each other over his head and red dirt is soft under his feet and he is so, so, _alive_.

He sort of forgets himself, for a while. Or maybe that’s not quite right. Maybe he forgets the anxious human parts of himself and the other parts are just allowed to move and breathe and be.

It’s good.

Right up until he follows his nose through a patch of piney woods and emerges, entirely by accident, into the tall grass behind Daughters.

He forgets all the stopping practice from earlier that night and ends up sprawled untidily just at the edge of the tree line.

Shit.

He’s got absolutely no sense of what time it is. Probably early morning? Still at least a few hours before sunrise.

Malfoy is sleeping.

Or he should be sleeping.

He’s probably sleeping.

Harry doesn’t let himself move any closer to check.

He just stares at the trailer for several minutes, the dull metal siding trying valiantly to reflect the moon overhead, and lets his breathing even out.

The katydids drop suddenly into silence and Harry can barely—just barely—hear Draco’s heartbeat inside. Slow. Calm.

It’s oddly reassuring.

He still doesn’t let himself move any closer but he also can’t seem to make himself leave.

He should go back to his house.

He should.

The night air feels suddenly thick, and his legs are tired and it makes sense, really, to lay down and rest for a while.

Insect noise swells again and he closes his eyes, just for a minute, breathing in the faint smell of woodsmoke somewhere north, stretching until he’s comfortable in a nest of pine-needles.

Just for a minute, he thinks.

And then it’s morning.

He wakes up entirely disoriented, panicking a little because not only has he definitely exhibited near-stalking behavior but also because he’s lying naked a dozen meters from Malfoy’s window.

Except he’s not, actually, naked.

Or he is, technically, but he’s not a naked human.

He is, most assuredly, still a wolf.

Harry is stymied.

The two previous full moons, he’d lost consciousness as the sun set, and then woken up as the sun rose, human and hurting.

But it’s well after sunrise, he’s still furry, and he’s starting to panic about it.

What if he’s _stuck_ like this?

And then he’s pawing at Malfoy’s door.

He doesn’t mean to.

Which is on-trend for the past twelve hours.

It’s just that he was scared and then he wasn’t because Malfoy was opening the door and Malfoy will fix things. Which isn’t, actually, all that logical. Because it could very well be Malfoy’s fault—some weird potion thing?—that Harry is stuck like this. Except he immediately relaxes when Malfoy steps out into the early morning sun.

Malfoy does not relax.

In fact, he slams the door in Harry’s face with a scream that sends up the flock of birds that had been resting on the power line overhead.

“What the _fuck_ , Potter,” he says a moment later, door cracked open.

His heart is beating really fast again and Harry feels bad because he knows it’s his fault.

Harry sits and tries to look docile.

“Why are you still a wolf?” Malfoy hisses. “Why are you _here_?”

Harry just blinks at him.

“Jesus,” Malfoy says. He lets the door ease open a few more inches. “Are you—can you not change back?”

Harry sighs again and attempts a nod.

“Alright. Well. That’s fine. We can figure it out. We can—actually, no.”

Draco straightens suddenly, crossing his arms. The door bashes into his elbow and he winces, off-balance.

“This is _not_ my problem,” he says, once he’s upright again. “I have to open the shop in ten minutes. You need to go home and if you haven’t figured it out by this afternoon, I’ll help you then.”

Harry thinks that sounds like a terrible idea.

He lets his front feet slide slowly away from him until his belly thumps onto the ground.

“ _No_ ,” Malfoy says. “No laying down. _Leaving._ Going. Being— not here.”

He points in the direction of the woods.

Harry flops onto his side.

“I hate you,” Malfoy says.

And Harry does not whine. He doesn’t. But a noise comes up and out of his throat, completely unbidden, that maybe, slightly, could be misheard as a whine.

“Sorry,” Malfoy says, and then— “ _No_. I’m _not_ sorry. I don’t _care_ if you make pitiful noises. Go _away_.”

Harry rolls onto his back and tucks his front feet to his chest.

He tries to lay his ears back and open his eyes as wide and beseechingly as possible.

“What are you doing? That’s not cute,” Malfoy says.

Harry is pretty sure it is.

Draco shuts the door on him again.

Harry can hear Malfoy moving around inside. Taking off and putting on clothing. Banging a cabinet door. Running water and cursing and muttering unkind things about _stupid sodding Gryffindors._

He emerges a few minutes later in his customary trousers and white shirt, hair pulled back in a small, low, ponytail.

“You know what,” he says, walking past Harry. “Fine. Stay out here. Try not to get shot.”

Harry considers the very real possibility of that happening should someone see him sitting out at the edge of the woods like this and decides that, no, he will not stay here.

He stands, shakes, and then bounds after Malfoy.

Malfoy pauses, key in the shop door’s lock.

“What are you—no. _No_. You are not _coming to work_ with me, Potter.”

Except that’s exactly what Harry has decided he’s going to do, seeing as Malfoy is entirely powerless to stop him.

It seems Malfoy is, himself, realising this.

Harry shoulders his way inside and finds a nice out-of-the-way spot behind the counter to lie down. The cool linoleum feels good. He makes great decisions.

Malfoy shoves his fingers into his hair, looking at him, and then turns on his heel and goes on another brief expletive-laden tirade about Gryffindors as he opens the front of the shop and coaxes the register awake and starts rearranging an end cap that already looks perfectly well organised.

“Oh, no,” Draco mutters under his breath, his voice overly chipper, “Not to worry, Mrs. Henderson. The massive predator behind the counter surely won’t savage your infant. How do I know? Oh, because he’s actually a human with a furry ailment. Haven’t you heard? It’s bring your werewolf to work day.”

Content, Harry dozes.

It turns out there’s no need for Malfoy’s dramatics because, tucked as he is in the corner, none of the customers actually notice Harry. And if one of them did it would be entirely Malfoy’s fault because he spends most of his shift muttering things in Harry’s direction.

Billy is, to Malfoy’s extreme annoyance, utterly unconcerned about Harry’s presence when she arrives to take over for the evening shift.

“Picked up a stray?” she asks, crouching to scratch Harry’s ears. “Looks like a wolf, if not for the eyes. Must be a hybrid. Seems real sweet, though.”

Harry’s tail thumps, entirely without his permission, against a box full of tobacco products.

“Not a stray,” Malfoy says. “He belongs to Mr. Potter. Why he’s _here_ , I’ve no idea, but the vile cretin forced his way inside this morning and refused to leave.”

“Poor thing,” Billy says. “I know it’s cooling off outside but he still must be hot in all that fur. Probably wanted in for the air conditioning, huh, sweetheart?” She glances over at Malfoy. “Did you give him some water? ”

Harry perks right up at that.

Draco has the decency to look apologetic.

“I…didn’t think to, no.”

“Poor thing,” she repeats pointedly.

Ten minutes later, Harry is well-watered and happily following Draco out the back door.

Billy watches them leave with a knowing look, though Harry hasn’t the slightest idea what the look means. She can’t know that he’s a werewolf, so why she’s grinning a little and saying _Mr. Potter’s dog is welcome anytime provided he continues to mind his manners_ , Harry hasn’t the slightest.

That’s a problem for another day, though.

The more pressing problem is why he’s still a wolf when it’s now closer to sunset than sunrise.

Malfoy opens the door to his trailer, resigned, and Harry navigates the stairs with only minimal scrabbling. He finds himself on Malfoy’s bed a moment later, ensconced in Malfoy’s scent and weirdly pleased about it and also wishing his damn tail didn’t have a mind of its own.

“I suppose there’s no helping it,” Malfoy says like the world is ending. “I’ll have to speak to Granger.”

Harry thinks that’s a brilliant idea.

“I’ll drive us over once Lavon is done with the truck. I hope your laptop isn’t password-protected or it’s going to be a long night.”

Except Harry doesn’t want to wait for Lavon and the truck.

He’s hungry and he has to pee and he misses having thumbs.

He’s apparated without his wand before.

And if he’s still capable of other kinds of magic there’s no reason he can’t—

Harry jumps off the bed, lands in a bit of an artless heap, and then snag’s Malfoy’s wrist in his mouth.

_Destination, Determination and Deliberation_ , he thinks.

“Potter?” Malfoy says, high and frightened, but Harry has already pulled him in a half-circle and then there’s the familiar tug behind his navel and a popping in his ears and they’re standing in Harry’s kitchen.

“What the fuck,” Malfoy says. “How did—? That’s not possible. That shouldn’t be possible. I don’t—”

He frantically pats himself over like he’s afraid that Harry might have splinched him, which is frankly insulting, and then abruptly sits down on the floor.

“How is this my life,” he mutters into his hands.

Concerned, Harry moves to sit beside him.

“I hate you,” Malfoy says, even more lowly, and Harry definitely does not make the not-a-whine noise again.

“Alright. Fine. _Fine._ So normal transformative magic rules don’t apply to the Chosen One,” Malfoy says, more to himself than Harry, “that’s fine. That’s not even surprising. Why should Harry Potter have to obey _any_ rules _ever_ in his life?” Malfoy pushes himself back to his feet. “But god forbid he handle elementary things without assistance. Can he apparate while wandless and not human? Certainly. Can he complete a standard full moon transformation, which should be an automatic process? Perish the thought.”

Harry knows he should probably object to Malfoy’s little tirade, except Malfoy had used Harry’s back to help him stand without seeming to realise it—one hand, firmly pressed to the little dip in his spine—and it was—

Nice.

Harry liked it.

Or _Harry_ didn’t, but his wolf instincts or whatever did and it was sort of hard to separate the two at the moment.

He finds himself wishing that Malfoy would scratch his head like Billy did and then immediately recoils from the same thought, horrified.

He needs to be human again.

Immediately.

Malfoy locates Harry’s laptop on the counter next to the fridge, mutters something about small mercies when he finds it isn’t password-protected, and then opens Facetime and locates Hermione’s contact information with a startling degree of efficiency.

 The dichotomy of it—Malfoy’s wrist leant against the edge of the MacBook, one long, pale, pure-blooded finger sliding confidently against the trackpad— is sort of baffling.

Even dressed in his muggle work clothes, even thin and drawn and completely without magic, Malfoy still feels _other_ to Harry. _More_. A living, breathing, anachronism with sharp elbows and an even sharper tongue.

Hermione answers on the third ring, the screen filled with a close-up view of her chin and a few spiral curls.

“Harry? Is everything okay? I’m late for work, so—”

She drops the phone with a shriek and then Harry gets a brief flash of freckles and Ron’s thumb blocking the camera. “Hey mate, she dropped you. ‘Mione what are you—bloody hell.”

And then they’re looking at the ceiling again.

“ _Malfoy_?” Ron says.

“Yes, hello,” Malfoy says stiffly. “Weasley. Granger.”

“What have you done to Harry?” Ron snarls at the same moment that Hermione says, “I knew it! I _knew_ he had someone helping him. Of _course_ it was you, it all makes sense, now! Ron, get your finger off the—”

“ _What_?” Ron says.

“Wait,” Hermione says. “Did it not work? Draco, did you make a mistake? Is Harry okay? Oh for heaven’s sake, Ron, give me the—”

“He’s fine,” Malfoy says, even more stiffly, as Ron and Hermione’s faces come back into view. “And of course it worked. My potion was impeccable. The problem is. Well. He’s _fine_ ,” Malfoy reiterates. “Perfectly healthy. He’s just.”

Harry puts his front feet up on the counter and leans toward the screen.

“Oh,” Hermione says faintly. “Well, that’s. Unexpected.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron says.  

The four of them just look at each other for a moment.

“We called because we hoped you might have some advice,” Draco says. “Are you familiar with any other cases of werewolves being unable to return to their human forms?”

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Well. Yes. Several, in fact. But they were all particularly powerful wizards before they were bitten and they—I suppose that makes sense, actually. It is _Harry_ after all.”

And Harry is little disgruntled to find Hermione and Malfoy sharing what might be a longsuffering look.

“Yes. He is rather _special_ , isn’t he?” Malfoy says snidely.

“You have no idea,” Hermione mutters.

“Oh, but I do. Boy wonder apparated us here just a moment ago. While still a wolf. And apparently can perform other wandless magic as well.”

“That’s not possible,” Hermione says.

“That’s what I said _immediately after he apparated us into his kitchen_.”

“No,” she repeats. “It’s just—it’s not. Transformative magic has _laws._ Physical, indisputable, laws—”

“I _know_ ,” Malfoy repeats.

Harry leans against his shoulder because Malfoy’s heart rate is getting a little fast again.

He accios an orange from the fruit bowl, but forgets he doesn’t have hands and it bounces off his face.

“Wait,” Ron says. “Was that—”

Embarrassed, Harry throws a quick _wingardium leviosa_ at it and floats the fruit right up to the camera.

“Are _you_ doing that?” Ron asks Malfoy.

“I haven’t had magic for a _year_ , you imbecile,” Malfoy says. “And even if I did, I could barely light a candle without a wand, before. Cavalierly levitating fruit was never a talent I possessed.”

“Oh,” Hermione says.

Harry has no idea why they’re all being so dramatic about this.

“Potter’s unprecedented talents aside,” Malfoy says. “Do you have any idea how we can return him to a more or less human shape? I’d really rather not have a permanent wolf shadow at work.”

“He went with you to work?” Ron asks, and then, “Wait. You _work_?”

“It should be a simple incantation,” Hermione says. “The same one that animagi instructors use when students are first learning to control the shift.”

“ _Forma humana_ ,” Malfoy and Hermione say together.

“I wondered if that would work,” Malfoy says. “I can’t perform it, though. And there aren’t any other magical people in the city that I’m aware of.”

“I’ll have to portkey over, but I won’t have a chance until after work,” Hermione says apologetically.

“Sorry Harry,” Ron adds, “I’ve got late training tonight and I can’t miss it. I’ll already be in trouble for coming in late as it is.”

Harry thinks they’re all being ridiculous.

If he can apparate, he can surely—

_Forma humana_ , he thinks fiercely. _Forma humana._ _Forma humana._ _Forma humana. I want bloody thumbs again. Forma humana._

Ah.

“Harry!” Hermione shouts.

“Of course,” Malfoy says dourly.

“Nice to see you, mate,” Ron says. “Though I’d like to see a little less of you, if I’m honest.”

Harry’s face feels too small. Sort of squished.

Everything sounds less and looks more.

He can’t smell _anything_.

It takes him several dazed moments to realise he’s sprawled, quite naked, on the concrete floor.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” Malfoy says.

Harry blinks and tries to sit up.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asks.

“I think so?” Harry says.

“Well good. I really would like to shout at you for a number of things—honestly, Harry. Trying to _apparate?_ You could have been killed!”

“Or worse,” Ron says, “expelled.”

Hermione does not appear nearly as amused by this as Harry.

“Sorry?” Harry says, badly stifling a laugh.

“We’ll talk about it later. I really do have to go. We’ll also be talking about the fact that you’re apparently living with Malfoy, later.”

“Wait,” Harry says. “No.”

“Yeah,” Ron says. “ _Blimey_. Are you two—”

“Later,” Hermione repeats. “Goodbye, Harry. Please don’t do anything stupid until I can speak to you again.”

“No judgement if you _are_ ,” Ron says, “love is love and all, but _Malfoy_?”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione mutters, “we talked about this.”

And then the call disconnects.

Harry uses the counter as leverage to stand.

All his bones feel weird.

“Here,” Malfoy says, thrusting a bundle of fabric at him.

Malfoy’s face is distinctly pink and he’s focusing, very intently, on the toaster.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“I’ll just be in the potions barn,” he says.

“Alright,” Harry holds the roll of clothing in front of his nether region. “I was thinking, er. Of making Lemon Chicken tonight. Is that—”

“Fine. That’s fine.”

“Great. I’ll come down and join you once it’s simmering, then? It has to stay on low heat for a while. So. I could set a timer and then--If I won’t be bothering you, I mean.”

“No. That’s fine.”

“Great.”

“Alright. I’m going, now.”

“Right, yeah.”

Malfoy leaves.

Harry puts on his clothes and resists the urge to bang his head against the fridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log: 
> 
> If you've been following me for a bit, you know that Refinery29 did a Sweet Digs episode on my apartment. If you haven't...uh. Now you know. Well, the episode is up on the Sweet Digs site/Youtube now! Deacon is, completely not-shockingly, very handsome and steals the show. I've posted a link and some stills on Tumblr, but here it is if you want to see it:
> 
> https://www.refinery29.com/en-us/sweet-digs-one-bedroom-studio-dallas-texas-apartment-video-tour
> 
> We've been enjoying strangely temperate weather in Texas (it hasn't broken 100 yet!) and trying to balance researching and writing with hiking and swimming and tubing (Deacon skips the tubing. He 0/10 does not recommend). We also went to Austin Comic Con over the weekend with some friends and it was super fun (for pics see Tumblr).
> 
> I hope everyone is having a lovely start to their summer!


	6. Chapter 6

Draco is doling out portions of pain relief draught into a dozen small quilted mason jars when Potter slips inside the door.

He’s wearing the clothes Draco picked out for him—a black t-shirt with faded jeans— and actually looks somewhat presentable for once.

_You’re welcome,_ he thinks disingenuously.

“Hi,” Potter says like an idiot.

Draco ignores him.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Potter asks, and it’s disconcerting, how earnest he is: arms crossed, leaned against the partition wall separating the potions lab from the grow space. His hair is a mess, the upper half pulled up into a sloppy little topknot, and there’s a splash of something food-related on his forearm that’s started to go flaky. It’s a good-looking forearm, otherwise. Smooth skin. Dark hair. A subtle map of veins.

“No,” Draco says. “No, I’m nearly done here.”

His face feels suddenly hot.

He checks the flame under his cauldron to see if it’s the culprit.

“Well, we’ve got thirty minutes, at least,” Potter says, “if you’d like to start on something else.”

He uses his shoulder to push off the wall and wanders over to the back side of the barn. It’s mostly full of tools and leftover lumber and several multipurpose 20 litre buckets. 

He stops in front of a large tarp-covered object Draco had noted, absently, as being new.

He pulls off the tarp. 

“What is that?” Draco says.

“A motorbike,” Harry says.

“Yes, but why?”

“Why is it a motorbike? I’m not sure I’m prepared for that sort of existential conversation. Can I think about it and get back to you?”

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Potter says pleasantly, crouching to open a tool box.

“Potter.”

Potter sighs. “Sirius had one. My godfather. His is still back in London but I’d been working on it before I left. I didn’t want to go through the hassle of shipping here, so. What’s the point of having money if you don’t spend it occasionally?”

Draco remembers thinking that exact thing many times before: Looking in shop windows and ordering gifts for his mother. Sliding his fingers down the newest, fastest, broom handles. Knowing that anything, _anything_ , could be his at a whim.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

“If you have so much money, why didn’t you purchase a new one?” Draco asks, moving around the partition so he can get a better view of the machine. “That one looks rather…ill.”

Potter shrugs. “I’m good at it, I guess. Fixing things. I, er. Started using Youtube? Watching tutorials and stuff, you know, to try and get Sirius’s bike working again. And it just sort of came naturally?”

“Of course it did,” Draco mutters.

“I enjoyed it. And it was nice to find something I was good at that had nothing to do with being the… the Chosen One. Or whatever.”

Draco doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“It was a good hobby. Something to look forward to at work when things got—” Potter shrugs. “It was nice to come home to a project.”

“I thought—”

Draco stops, but Potter is already looking up at him, expectant.

“I thought you were an Auror,” he finishes. 

“Yeah.”

“Was that not—weren’t you happy? Doing that.”

Harry’s expression says everything he does not.

“It was fine. Just. Not what I expected.”

“How so?”

Potter sits back on his heels.

The hum of the hydroponics system takes over in the interim silence.

“They wouldn’t actually let me _be_ an Auror. They wouldn’t let me take on the responsibilities that are supposed to come with the title. Or maybe they couldn’t. Because of who I am. How well-known my face is.”

“Well that’s absurd,” Draco points out, not really meaning to. “Some of the best Aurors in history were known for having all manner of secret identities that they used regularly. Glamours. Charms. Polyjuice. And Identity Artifacts aren’t cheap, but they’re simple enough to construct. I could make one for you in a matter of days if you could get your hands on the ingredients.”

Potter makes a low noise that is probably meant to be a laugh.

It isn’t.

“I asked Robards about that, once,” he says. “A few months in. After I hadn’t assisted on a single real case, only been to press events and photo-ops, while my peers from training were starting to get their own cases. Robards said my face was my best weapon and I shouldn’t squander it.”

“It sounds as if your face was his best weapon.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I realised that, eventually.”

“So,” Draco says. “You played his pawn for—a year?”

“Mm. Little more.”

“A little more than a year. And you tinkered with your moto-bike. And then you were turned and you…ran a way?”

“It’s mot- _or_ -bike. And yeah, more or less.”

Draco sniffs. “Well that’s not very Gryffindor of you, is it?”

“I was just—”

Draco waits, but it seems Potter isn’t entirely sure what he was just.

“You were?” Draco prompts after several seconds.

“Tired, I guess. I was just tired. Of the constant attention and expectations and trying to be whatever—whatever a hero is supposed to be. Yeah, I didn’t want to hurt anyone and I didn’t want the press to find out I’d been bitten, but it was also just a good excuse. To leave. To not have to deal with any of it anymore. At least for a while.”

Draco feels like maybe Potter shouldn’t be telling him this.

“I see. And what about your friends? Your—Teddy.”

Harry stands, tossing the wrench he’d been fiddling with back into the tool box.

Draco immediately wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“I keep up with them,” Harry says. “They don’t need me there in person.”

“Ah.”

“I’ve been thinking about getting a television.”

Draco blinks at the non-sequitur.

“Alright?”

“What do you think?”

“I’ve very little experience with television. Certainly not enough to have an opinion about it one way or the other.”

“But you’re—not opposed?”

“What does it matter what I think?” Draco asks, baffled.

“It doesn’t,” Potter says sharply. More sharply, really, then seems necessary.

“Alright,” Draco says.

Potter shoves a hand into his hair, grimaces when it gets stuck, because his hair is half-tied-up, and then just—sags, exhaling.

“I’m going to buy one,” he says, pulling out the hair tie. He stretches the band into an approximate square between his thumbs and forefingers, lips pursed, and then abruptly shoves it into his pocket.

“I’m going to order one now, actually. From Amazon. It’s this website where—”

“I know what Amazon is.”

“Right. Well. I’m going to go do that. I’ll be back.”

Potter leaves.

Draco, still baffled, cleans up his work station and then sees to the plants.

“I suppose it shouldn’t be shocking that the magic-leaking werewolf is a bit moonstruck, as it were,” he says to a mustard plant. The mustard plant does not find his pun amusing. “Still, this is Harry Potter we’re talking about. Do you think we ought to be concerned?”

The mustard plant doesn’t answer.

Draco gently clips a yellowing leaf and moves down the row to the more volatile occupants.

“I imagine spending the day as a wild animal might make anyone a bit batty,” he observes to a just-blooming white snakeroot. “Perhaps we should be forgiving.”

Draco feels the snakeroot agrees.

Dinner that night is delicious, as usual, though Potter fidgets his way through it and manages to knock over not only his tea, but Draco’s as well.

He’s also disconcertingly focused on Draco’s food consumption, offering seconds and then insisting on thirds, eyes tracking Draco’s fork from plate to mouth and plate again.

Once Draco is uncomfortably full, Potter also insists on doing the washing up alone and then asks Draco to look over some muggle gardening books because he wants to add another grow station for vegetables and herbs to use in his cooking. After another two cups of tea and some sketched blueprints and a friendly amount of bickering, Draco realises it’s nearly 11pm.

“Oh,” Potter says when Draco points this out. “Do you—would you rather just stay here tonight? Since it’s so late.”

“No?” Draco says. “Where would I even—? No. It will take you less than a minute to apparate me home.”

“Right. Obviously. Oh, I meant to—”

Potter stands, rubs his palms down the thighs of his jeans, and then jogs up the stairs to the loft, tripping twice. Draco watches him, completely uncertain what’s happening.

He comes back with a long, narrow, box in his hands, scuffed at the edges, with a rubber  band holding it closed. It looks like a wand box, but that doesn’t make any sense seeing as Potter’s wand is still visibly, stupidly, stowed in his back pocket.

_Heathen._

“I’ve been meaning to give this back to you,” Potter says.

And the whole world goes suddenly very, very still.

No.

It can’t be.

Draco doesn’t realise he’s taken the box until it’s open in his hands and the lid is on the ground and it’s—

It’s ten inches of hawthorn wood.

Unicorn hair core.

It’s his wand.

Was.

_Was_ his wand.

Because he has no magic now. 

It won’t recognise him. 

He picks it up anyway, because he has to know; he has to be certain.

But when he curls his fingers around the cool handle, when he holds it like he did for the first time nearly a decade before—hopeful but wary—he feels nothing.

_Nothing_.

And he never will again.

The nothing morphs into nausea, morphs into visceral, clenching, sadness, morphs into fury.

“Cruelty is unlike you, Potter,” Draco manages. 

He considers throwing the wand. The wand that is and isn’t his. He considers snapping it. Just—breaking it over his knee. And then maybe throwing the pieces for good measure. He wants to, but he can’t. For some reason, that just makes him angrier.

“What?” Potter says.

His hand turns into a fist around the wood, worn butter-smooth by years of use.

“I suppose you certainly have the last laugh,” Draco murmurs, attention on his pale knuckles. “Kindly returning the wand you stole to the wizard—the, the _squib_ — who can’t use it anymore. Did you think I’d forgotten? Did you think I needed reminding of what I did and what I’ve become?”

“I—no. I just thought that you’d want it back. It’s _yours_.”

“It’s not mine. It stopped being mine the minute you took its allegiance and it certainly won’t ever be mine again, which you should well know.”

“Malfoy—”

“So you’re either needlessly malicious or hopelessly stupid. Which is it, Potter?”

And oh, now here’s a Harry Potter that Draco remembers.

“I didn’t _have_ to give it back, you know,” Potter says, all flint and iron. “I won it fair and square. I was trying to be nice. Though clearly I shouldn’t have bothered. You realise what this wand is worth? What it means to the wizarding world? It’s the wand that defeated Voldemort. It’s the wand that changed history. Kingsley wanted it in a museum, but I wouldn’t let him take it.”

“I’ve no idea why. It’d fit right in with all of the other Potter memorabilia under spotlights at the Ministry. I can see the placard now: _Here lies the wand that defeated Voldemort, captured from its prior master—a Death Eater—and turned against_ his _master_.”

Draco’s fingers hurt, they’re holding the wand so tightly. 

“Practically poetic, that.”

“Why are you being like this?” Potter snaps.

Draco laughs.

He can’t help it.

“Why am I—? I’m dying, _alone_ , in an American town to spare my mother the indignity of burying her only son because no one cares if the Ministry of Magic is unjust or cruel so long as they’re being cruel to the _right_ people. And you facilitated them. By your own admission, you played puppet to their politicians and policy makers and shook hands with thieves and smiled for photographs with torturers and everyone reading the papers thinks, _oh well, surely we can trust officials that the Boy Who Lives supports. Surely_ Harry Potter _wouldn’t lead us astray_.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“If that’s true, you really are an imbecile.”

Draco finally forces himself to let go of the wand.

It clatters onto the floor— far quieter, less intrusive, than seems right.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

Draco knows that he’s very close to crying and it’s unlikely he’ll be able to prevent it from happening and it will be ugly and unwieldy and awful and he refuses to cry like that whilst someone—especially Potter—is watching.

“Take me home,” he says, holding out his arm. “Right now.”

Potter does.

***

Draco doesn’t see Potter for two days.

Three.

Four.

He runs out of blood building potions on the fifth.

Pain and breathing potions on the sixth.

He’s been spoiled, he realises on the seventh, by his constant proximity to Potter.

He’d forgotten what it was like before: The constant aches and difficulty breathing and the sleepless nights. His cough, which had dissipated to an early-morning-only phenomenon returns with full-force.

Billy and Lavon fuss over him because he’s wheezing and losing the little weight he put on from Potter’s cooking, but he has no appetite and it—well it all seems a little pointless anyway, doesn’t it?

Ah. Apparently the depression is back as well.

Potter shows up at Daughters on day eight looking annoyingly healthy and well-rested and as if he certainly hasn’t been counting the days since they’ve seen each other.

“Draco! Er. —ake? Drake. You. Hi,” he says, sounding startled. As if it was unusual that Potter would find Draco, here, where he worked, on one of the days Potter knew he was scheduled.

“Mr. Potter?” Lavon says.

“Oh,” Harry says. “Hello. Are you Lavon?”

“I certainly am.”

Lavon steps down from the ladder where he’d been replacing one of the lights above the register. Even as tall and muscular as Harry has become, Lavon dwarfs him.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Billy,” Lavon says, extending a hand. “Apparently you’re from London like Drake?”

“Yeah, yes.” Potter accepts his hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Drake said McAllister and some of his boys gave you a spot of trouble the other day.”

Potter raises an eyebrow at him and Draco ducks behind the register to look for some counter spray. There’s a bit of adhesive that needs taking care of.

“You look like you can handle yourself,” Lavon continues, “but you let me know if you ever need anything, alright?”

Draco watches, just over the edge of the counter, as Lavon hands Potter one of his business cards.

“I—alright?”

“And if you do run into trouble, maybe don’t mention it to Billy. She’s too old to spend nights in jail anymore.”

“Uh,” Potter says. “Okay?”

“Good man.” Lavon pats his shoulder and folds up the ladder, whistling as he carries it to the back storage room.

“Can you explain to me what just happened?” Potter says lowly.

Draco stands, counter-spray in one hand.

“He’s looking out for you.”

“But why?”

“Because he’s decent. Also, I imagine, because of the—thing.”

“The thing.”

“The—“ he tries to remember what muggles consider politically acceptable. “The race thing.”

“The race thing,” Potter repeats slowly.

“Apparently Lavon’s family had to deal with quite a bit of… pushback when they moved here when Lavon was a child. He’s told me— terrible things. And when Lavon and Billy got married right out of high school it caused another stir. Apparently Billy ended up in jail a dozen times their first year as newlyweds because her default response when someone said something nasty was to hit them.”

Potter is looking at him with dark, serious, eyes.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. That’s kind of him.”

He looks like he wants to say more.

Draco uses his nail to pick at the adhesive on the counter. “Lavon says that most people now, particularly the younger ones, don’t appear to maintain the same prejudices. But, in the muggle world, it appears that racism is…rather systematic. Even if people aren’t vocal about their biases.”

“Yeah, I know. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” Harry says.

Draco’s fingers clench around the spray bottle.

He lets his hair fall into his face.

Because he does know.

Draco remembers the first time he’d visited Blaise’s manor house, being shocked to see fully-dressed house elves who were asked to do things rather than told. Who were thanked; treated kindly and respectfully. Who, according to Blaise, were not owned, but rather elected to work for the family for either wages or bonded safety or both.

When Draco had asked him why, Blaise had briefly lost his aloof, cavalier, demeanor and instead became rather shockingly somber.

“Well,” Blaise had said. “It wasn’t so long ago that muggles treated people who looked like me the same way most wizards treat house elves. Mother says that no thinking being should ever be owned by another. Can’t say I disagree.”

Draco’d done a bit a bit of research on the history of muggle race relations the following term, made a few uncomfortable revelations, and found himself quietly reconsidering pureblood ideology.

Not that it mattered. All the revelations in the world hadn’t been enough to counteract his cowardice.

“You look ill,” Potter says, interrupting his memory. “Are you alright?”

Draco clears his throat. “Don’t worry, I’m not contagious.”

“That’s not what I—”“

“Did you need something?”

“Oh. Just some food. But I thought—do you want to come over tonight? Maybe you could make some Pepper-Up to help you feel better? I was thinking of chicken soup for dinner as well. Mrs. Weasley sent me the family recipe and—”

“I have plans tonight,” Draco says.

“Oh. Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid I’m busy then as well.”

“Right.”

Potter’s hands curl into fists. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. He goes to get a trolley.

When Potter returns fifteen minutes later to check out, Draco asks if he’s found everything he was looking for (yes), if he’d like ice or stamps (no) and then helps him load several bags of shopping back into his trolley without saying anything.

Standing so close, hands colliding once with the transfer of a small watermelon, is a special kind of torture.

Because already Draco feels so much better and the temptation—to say he’s changed his mind, that yes, he is available that evening—has him biting his bottom lip. He intentionally bungles the payment process so it takes several minutes to get Potter his receipt. So Potter will stand there, a foot a way, a little while longer. In the war between self-preservation and pride, pride only barely wins. In another day or so it likely won’t, but Draco will deal with that then.

“I guess I’ll see you,” Potter says.

“Have a nice day,” Draco manages.

When Draco gets off work, he drinks a Gatorade for dinner and falls into a fitful sleep until eight pm, when someone knocks on his door.

When he opens it, however, no one is there.

It’s just fireflies backgrounded by blue twilight.

Except.

There’s a Tupperware bowl sitting on the top of his steps and when he picks it up, it’s still warm. There’s a spoon and a purple post-it note on top.

The note reads in familiar, untidy scrawl: _I’ll be back for the bowl and spoon tomorrow. Make sure they’re clean._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Writing a dissertation is hard. Go figure. I almost forgot it was Monday because days aren't really things for me right now; I just exist in this giant blur of research/writing/thinking I'm brilliant/thinking I'm a fraud. It's good I have Deacon because I at least am keeping a somewhat normal sleeping/exercising schedule at his behest.
> 
> I'll be heading to the farm next week where I will hopefully have time to sit on the back porch and write a bunch of Aesthetic shit for this fic while fully immersed in rural-Alabama-ness :)
> 
> See you in two weeks!


	7. Chapter 7

Harry doesn’t understand what went wrong.

He’d thought Malfoy would be happy.

He’d thought giving back the wand would be a kindness. Something Malfoy could have to look forward to. Except Malfoy acted like he would never have the opportunity to use the wand again. He acted like Harry was taunting him with it, and he’d said—well, he’d _been_ saying he was dying. But Harry had thought he was just being theatric, as Malfoy was wont to do. A swipe from a hippogriff was a mortal injury. A bump on the quidditch field was an unpardonable offense. Harry had initially thought that Malfoy was just having trouble adjusting to muggle life and an income shortage but he didn’t think—he didn’t _actually_ believe there was something wrong, something fatally wrong, with the pointy git.

Because once Harry started feeding him the cough had gone away and he’d lost the dark circles under his eyes and his bones had stopped pressing against his skin quite so sharply.

So surely he wasn’t _seriously_ ill?

Harry wishes he had a pensieve because there are other things Malfoy had said. Things that didn’t make any sense. About the Ministry and cruelty and—

Harry is starting to wonder if maybe he’s missed something.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

He picks up the wand from the floor, smoothes his fingers idly over the handle, and then, rather than boxing it back up, sets it on the kitchen counter, next to the electric kettle. It doesn’t feel right to put it away again.

He texts Hermione, asking when she’ll be free to talk.

And then he takes his laptop up to bed and spends a truly ridiculous amount of money on home furnishings. Because he can. And because trying to select a sofa from the internet is an excellent distraction from thinking in circles.

Harry is painting the living room walls when Hermione Facetimes him the following day.

He’s hoping to have the painting done by the time Malfoy gets off work.

Not for any particular reason.

It’s just the deadline he’s chosen for himself.

“Harry,” she says, already sounding judgmental.

He pushes at the hair falling into his face.

“Hey, how are you?”

“It Malfoy there?” Ron asks, leaning into the frame.

“No, he’s at work.”

“Work,” Ron says disbelievingly. “Malfoy _works_. What does he _do_?”

“He helps run a shop here in town.”

“A shop. Malfoy works in a _shop_?”

“Are you painting?” Hermione asks.

Harry waves his clearly paint-smeared hands. “Yeah. I ordered some furniture last night so I figured I better get the walls done before it shows up.”

Ron makes a disbelieving noise, for no reason that Harry can discern.

“Thanks for helping me with the whole wolf thing,” Harry says to Hermione. “I was starting to freak out. I’m assuming you have theories about that?”

“Sure,” Hermione says absently. “I’m about to email you some things—research—that should help you get the shift under control. I really don’t think that’s the most pressing thing we have to discuss, though.”

“Oh. Okay?” Harry says.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Ron says.

Right.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he’s been helping me. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was.”

“That’s not—” Hermione starts.

“Did he _follow_ you there?” Ron asks.

“No, no he was actually here for a few months before I moved. Small world, right? But he’s been really great with setting up the whole hydroponics system, and he made the wolfsbane potion for me. Didn’t even taste that bad.”

“And you _drank_ it?” Ron yells.

“Yeah, but he’s not—he’s really not that bad, now.”

“Harry,” Hermione says.

“He _isn’t._ And it’s not like he hasn’t had plenty of opportunities to kill me in the past and, you know. Hasn’t. I trust him. Maybe. At least with this.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione says.

“Mate,” Ron says. “I have some concerns.”

“Everything is fine.”

“Oh sure, you’re just living with Malfoy in a house that you’re painting to look like the Slytherin common room. Clearly there’s nothing to be worried about.”

“No. _No_. He doesn’t live here. And this isn’t—it’s _sage_ green, not Slytherin green. I picked it out this morning. By myself.”

“I think that makes it worse,” Ron mutters.

“I _like_ the color green!”

“Of course, Harry,” Hermione says placatingly

Harry thinks about a few of the other furnishings he’s ordered and resolves to only Facetime with them in the kitchen from now on.

“Look,” he says. “It’s not like we’re friends or anything, but he’s different. From the way he used to be. He’s not going to hurt me. He probably couldn’t even if he wanted to.”

“Alright,” Hermione says. “But you really ought to be careful, Harry. After all, it would make sense if he held some…resentment. All things considered.”

“I spoke at his trial,” Harry says, baffled. “I’m the one that got him a lighter sentence. So he wouldn’t go to Azkaban. He should be _grateful_ , if anything. Not resentful.”

Ron and Hermione exchange a look.

“Er,” Ron says. “I’m not sure ‘lighter’ is really…” he glances at Hermione.

“Harry,” she says. “Whose idea was it—the loss of magic as an alternative to Azkaban?”

Harry has absolutely no idea why that matters.

“Robards. When the papers were talking about their trials—Malfoy and Parkinson and the rest— how it looked like they would all be sentenced as adults and get at least a year or two in Azkaban a piece, I told him I’d like to speak on their behalf. Because I didn’t think it was fair, that they’d been pawns just as much as I had. Robards suggested magical suspension as a way to er… _placate the masses_ he said. Because it’d teach them respect for the way muggles live but would be an inconvenience rather than torture _._ ”

Harry thinks about Malfoy the past month, feeling wrong-footed. “Inconvenience” seems too gentle a word for the haunted, careful, way he carries himself.

Hermione is biting her lip.

Ron looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“What?” Harry says, exasperated. “What am I missing?”

“Well. That might be true if it were me,” Hermione says. “Or any other muggle-born. But Harry, all of the people sentenced were pure-bloods.”

“So?”

“So—” Hermione makes an aggrieved noise. “ _See,_ ” she murmurs to Ron, “I _told_ you he didn’t know.”

“Alright, alright,” Ron mutters back.

“Guys,” Harry says.

“You really ought to have paid more attention during magical theory lessons,” Hermione says.

“Well, I’m paying attention _now_ , so if you could—”

“It’s just that losing magic, for a pureblood, probably _is_ a kind of torture. Or—or at least it’s likely just as bad as Azkaban.”

“If not worse,” Ron says.

“Because muggle-borns don’t have a magical legacy. And mixed-blood wizards have diluted magical ancestry. But pure-bloods—”

“There’s a reason pure-blood families don’t have squibs,” Ron says darkly.

“I don’t—wait. Why not?”

“Because,” Hermione says patiently. “A pure-blood squib usually doesn’t survive past infancy.”

Harry feels suddenly nauseous.

He remembers Malfoy’s face as he held the wand.

He remembers him saying _I’m dying._

“Magic builds up,” Ron says. “So over generations, magic gives families like an extra—whatever. Boost. Makes them healthier. Even if they have er—what’s it called?”

“Genetic illnesses,” Hermione finishes. “Most pure-blood families have very strong generational magic, but they’ve been intermarrying with a rather small gene pool for a rather long time.”

“Some smaller than others,” Ron adds.

“But unlike muggles who suffer from ill effects of inbreeding,” Hermione says, “pure-bloods rely on strong hereditary magic to counteract ailments associated with low biodiversity.”

“So you’re saying that he’s—that Malfoy has genetic illnesses? And he’s developed them now that he doesn’t have magic keeping them in check?”

Ron says, “exactly,” in the same instant that Hermione responds “not exactly,”

They roll their eyes at each other.

“Basically,” Hermione amends, “except any illnesses he has now, he’s had all along, he just didn’t suffer from them before. Or likely even knew what they were.”

“Oh.”

Harry feels like he might need to sit down.

He does so.

On the floor, because he’s covered in paint and the sofa is new.

“So,” he says, balancing his laptop on his crossed ankles, “So you’re telling me that it _is_ torture. That all the pure-bloods sentenced are now ill, if not disabled? That Azkaban might have actually been kinder?”

“Yes,” Hermione says.

Harry swallows.

“You thought I’d do that on purpose?”

“I mean. It’s not like they didn’t deserve it,” Ron says lowly.

Hermione gives him a look that says they’ve had this conversation before and are still at an impasse.

“We didn’t know _what_ to think,” she says. “So much was happening and you spoke so confidently at the trial—”

“I said what Robards told me to say,” Harry says. “Which—”

He stops. Starts again. “Why isn’t everyone talking about this? There were half a dozen Hogwarts students and over thirty Death Eaters sentenced. And you’re telling me they’re all suffering right now? Why aren't we reading about it in the papers?”

“Because everyone already knows,” Hermione says. “It’s not…news.”

“So Robards knew what removing magic from pure-bloods would do to them. The council knew.” Harry knows he’s being repetitive but he can’t quite believe it. “This isn’t some secret?”

“No,” Ron says. “Not if you’ve grown up in the wizarding world.”

“Or paid attention during magical theory,” Hermione mutters.

Harry shoves his fingers into his hair: nails against scalp.

“Robards lied to me. Manipulated me. And gave me a script that intentionally didn’t mention kindness. That focused on teaching pure-bloods to respect muggle life by forcing them to participate in it. So no one knew that I was endorsing it because I thought it was a kinder option than Azkaban.”

It’s not exactly a new discovery, that people he trusted were using him, but it still hurts. It’s still embarrassing. Still infuriating.

“I’m afraid so,” Hermione says.

“It’s not your fault, mate,” Ron says. “It’s not like you knew.”

“It is, though,” Harry murmurs. “Because I’m—I _do_ know that there’s still so much about the wizarding world that I _don’t_ know. You know?”

He’s saying “know” too much.

He scrubs a hand through his hair again.

Ron nods because he’s a good and loyal friend.

“There’s been a lot of expectations of you,” Hermione says kindly, because she is also a good and loyal friend. “You can’t blame yourself for the actions of others. Of adults. Of people who should be trustworthy and just and not…taking advantage of ignorance to sway public opinion.”

“We’re adults too, you know,” Harry says. “Mostly. And no one should be looking to me for guidance. Political or otherwise.”

“Well that’s probably going to happen for the rest of your life, mate,” Ron says. “You’re the Chosen One.”

“You realise that means absolutely nothing now that Voldemort is dead,” Harry says.

“You realise literally no one sees it that way,” Ron answers.

“That’s not—okay, whatever. But back to Malfoy, is he really ill? He’s been saying he is but I thought it was just—”

“Malfoy being Malfoy?” Ron supplies.

“Yeah.”

“I mean,” Ron says, “he _did_ look like shit. But that’s not exactly new.”

“We know Pansy was badly off,” Hermione interrupts, “And she was only sentenced to a year.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron agrees. “She had the heart thing. Her parents moved her to France and paid an obscene amount of money for a muggle-born doctor who had both medical and healing experience. Kept her more or less normal with a mix of potions and muggle medicine until her time was up and she got her magic back. Apparently it was still pretty terrible for her, though.”

“How do you even know that?” Harry asks.

“We’re cousins,” Ron says. “A few times removed, but still. Mum still talks to her mum.”

“He’s been using the potion lab we made,” Harry says. “Malfoy. That was our agreement— he makes my wolfsbane potion and he has access whenever he wants. So he’s probably been making things to help with whatever is wrong with him, right?”

“It’s smart,” Hermione says. “He really ought to be under the supervision of a professional, though. Especially the further he gets into his sentence. His symptoms will only get worse the longer he goes without magic. And five years is an awfully long time.”

It was the worst sentence handed out to any of the Hogwarts students, Harry knew. Because Malfoy had been directly responsible for Death Eaters entering the school. Because he was the only one who’d taken the Dark Mark.

Harry wonders if Malfoy honestly believes he won’t make it four more years.

Considering how terrible he’d looked when Harry initially saw him…it feels uncomfortably possible.

“I tried to give him his wand back,” Harry says. “Yesterday. He er. Got pretty mad. When I dropped him off at home he said he never wanted to see my stupid face again.”

“Why?” Ron says.

Hermione sighs.

“Imagine when you picked up your wand it didn’t recognize you. That it felt no different than a…spoon. Or a drum stick.”

“Oh,” Ron says.“Yeah, alright. That was a bit of a dick move, then.”

“I was trying to be _nice_ ,” Harry says.

And he thinks that maybe he should stop trying since apparently whenever he does he ends up making things worse.

“I can’t go back,” he says.

He knows that it’s a non sequitur but all he can think about is that he needs to fix this somehow—to make it clear that torturing people wasn’t his intention. That it shouldn’t be _anyone’s_ intention. But the very idea of returning to London, to speaking to the Prophet or confronting Robards or—

He curls his hands around his own biceps.

“I can’t,” he repeats. “Not yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Hermione says.

“But Robards can’t be trusted. And if people are suffering because of me, I have to do _something_.”

“It’s _not your fault_ ,” Hermione says.

“We can—look into things,” Ron says. “I mean. _I_ can’t do much, but Mum and Dad are pretty popular these days, which is weird as hell but convenient, I guess. And Hermione already has half the Ministry under her finger.”

“I do not,” she says, grinning. “It’s really only a quarter or so.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Point is, you probably wouldn’t be able to do anything anytime soon even if you came back tomorrow. It’s not like anyone is dying.”

“Right,” Harry says, hoping it’s true. “Okay. What about Malfoy?”

“What about him?” Ron says.

“Well, you should probably apologise,” Hermione says.

“Don’t apologise,” Ron says

Hermione elbows him.

“At the very least,” she says, “you should give him some space. If he’s said he doesn’t want to see you, he probably means it.”

“He works at the only grocery store in town, what if I need food?”

“ _Do_ you need food?”

“…no.”

“Then wait. Don’t force your presence on him if he’s not ready to talk yet. If he’s using your place to make potions he’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Good riddance,” Ron mutters.

“Then you see him whenever you need food next.”

_Well._ Harry thinks. _At least I’ll have furniture by then. And the full moon is still a ways off._

And honestly, Malfoy probably didn’t mean it. Even if he did, he’ll call Harry in a day or two once he runs out of potions.

********

Malfoy doesn’t call.

Lavon’s truck doesn’t come bumping down the dusty drive.

Harry paces a lot, for no reason that he can discern.

The plants start to wilt.

It gets to the point where Harry goes from annoyed to anxious to angry.

He runs out of food on day six but refuses to go to the store because that would mean that Malfoy had _won_.

Won what, he doesn’t know, but it _matters_.

Ron would understand.

So he reads the research Hermione sent and he practices “feeling” his wolf-side and trying to recognise how it is both distinct but connected to his human-side and he orders more shit on Amazon and he tries to get the plants to stop fucking wilting.

Until day seven, when he’s hungry, and he thinks he can sneak in and out of Daughters while Malfoy takes his lunch break. Except then Malfoy ruins it, by actually being there. In his place of work. Working.

The _audacity._

Harry is shocked at how terrible Malfoy looks.

Lavon distracts him from it, briefly, but Malfoy looks just as bad as he did weeks before, maybe even worse, with purple-blue shadows under his eyes, pale lips, and jutting collarbones. His cough is back too.

It’s enough for Harry to let Malfoy win. To invite him over. Except Malfoy says _no_.

Which awakens a different sort of competitive drive in Harry. A need to _help_ , whether or not Malfoy wants to be helped.

He makes him chicken soup out of spite and leaves it on his steps with every intention to bring him a new pot each sequential night until Malfoy is—is _cowed_ by Harry’s kindness and gives up and comes back to the barns and starts making his potions again.

Which, Harry thinks, vindictively mixing parsley into the second-night stew, would be a win for Harry and loss for Malfoy. Because Malfoy doesn’t _want_ to spend time with Harry anymore and Harry is going to convince him to anyway.

The second night, Harry finds a clean bowl and spoon set out on Malfoy’s steps and he replaces them with the new set before quickly apparating away.

Except then, only two hours later, his new TV informs him that there’s a tornado watch in effect for the county and even with his limited knowledge of muggle trailers, he knows they likely aren’t safe in weather conditions that involve 50+ mph winds.

After several minutes of dithering, he apparates back to Malfoy’s place and stands outside for several more seconds.

Malfoy is sitting on the lofted bed at the back of the trailer, tucked up against the windows, head bent over a book, a quilt around his shoulders. The LED camping lantern hanging from the ceiling throws his angular profile in stark relief: his cheekbones and falling-out pony-tail and—

Glasses.

Malfoy is wearing glasses.

And they’re not stylish ones, either, just circular wire-rimmed glasses that look rather similar to Harry’s own old pair.

Harry isn’t sure why but the glasses confound him. Or maybe it’s the whole thing—the messy hair and the homemade blanket and the utter normalcy, the human-ness, of Malfoy with glasses sliding down his pointy nose—maybe that’s what confounds him.

He might very well have stayed, just watching, for a while, except he’d promised Malfoy he wouldn’t spy on him again.

He knocks on the door.

Malfoy jumps, meets Harry’s eyes through the window, and then fumbles the glasses off a moment later.

When he answers the door he’s still rumpled and soft-looking but also clearly embarrassed and trying to cover up the embarrassment with haughty distain.

“Can I _help_ you with something?” he asks around a cough, door only just cracked open.

Harry is not charmed in the slightest.

“No. I think I can probably help _you_ , though, seeing as there’s a massive storm headed our way and a trailer isn’t the safest place to wait it out. You want to stay the night with me?”

Malfoy just stares at him.

The door opens a few more inches.

“What?”

“The—” Harry gestures towards the sky, which is currently a nasty green-black color. “Storm,” he repeats. “Dangerous storm. There’s already been two tornadoes sighted.” A particularly hard gust of wind nearly pushes him off his feet as if agreeing with him.

“So,” Harry continues, when Malfoy still doesn’t say anything. “I thought you should probably come to the barns until it passes. To be safe.”

“I don’t seem to recall a basement on your property,” Malfoy answers. “A barn is only marginally safer than a trailer.”

“Well, yeah. But I can cast a pretty strong _protego horribilis_ around it to keep us safe if a tornado does show up.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looks sheepish, as if he momentarily forgot that Harry can do magic.

“Well why don’t you just stay here, then?” Malfoy says, cheeks pink.

“Oh. I mean. I can? Are you inviting me in or—”

“No. What? No. Don’t be—fine. Let’s go.”

“Aright. Do you want to pack a bag? You can bring your book if you want. And your glasses.”

Harry can tell Malfoy is flushing, even in the darkness.

“About the glasses,” Harry says, because watching the red move down Malfoy’s cheeks to his neck is endlessly amusing. “Should you be wearing them all the time? Should you be _driving_ with them? That would explain so much.”

Malfoy shuts the door in his face.

Harry stifles a laugh.

He knocks the knuckles of one hand lightly against the metal.

“Are you packing a bag or should I plan to sit on your step all night and erect some wards here?”

“I’m packing a bag.” Malfoy yells.

“And you won’t invite me in to wait?”

“No.”

“Seriously, bring your glasses. The plants are a bit off so you’ll need to take a look at them and I imagine the whole ‘looking’ thing would be simpler if you can, you know, see.”

Malfoy wrenches the door back open.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“What?”

Malfoy has a canvas backpack slung over one shoulder.

“The _plants_ , you useless twit.”

“Oh. Dunno, really. I haven’t changed anything. I think they might just miss you.”

Malfoy scoffs which turns into a cough.

It’s wet and terrible and deep in his lungs and Harry is instantly, rather bafflingly, anxious.

He extends a hand and then drops it, reaches for his wand, but isn’t sure he knows a spell that would help.

“Are you—”

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy wheezes. He shoves the bag into Harry’s arms. “Let’s go. Potions barn first.”

Harry obeys.

After taking a moment to orient himself, Malfoy stalks up and down the hydroponics aisles, barefoot, still in his pajamas, with a look of absolute distress.

“Oh Merlin,” he says, bending over a particularly sad-looking rosemary sprig. “What have you done to my plants?”

“ _Your_ plants?”

“Our plants.

“Our. Plants.”

“ _The_ plants. Whatever. Just. What _have_ you done to them?”

“Nothing, I told you. I haven’t changed anything.”

“Well that’s obviously untrue. Look at the state of the white oleander.”

“Which one is that again?” Harry asks innocently.

Malfoy honest to god growls at him. “I’m going to have to recalibrate the whole system.”

“Anything I can do?”

“If you’d drop dead, that would be immensely helpful.”

Harry tucks his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Nah. I will go make something for us to eat, though. Maybe a cobbler? I got peaches from Mrs. Kent’s orchard a few days back.”

“How lovely for you.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the weather and come get you if it looks like we’re in danger.”

Malfoy doesn’t reply.

Harry, obviously the victor, goes to make a cobbler.

An hour later, Malfoy stands in the middle of Harry’s living room and blinks at his surroundings.

“Did you—hire someone?” he asks.

“Oh, for decorating? No, I just painted. And ordered a bunch of stuff.”

“You have a sofa,” Malfoy says, like he still can’t quite believe it.

“Yeah.”

“It’s—not terrible. Where did you get it?”

“Amazon.”

“Of course.”

He sits on it, gingerly.

Harry might read into that except it seems that all of Draco’s movements are currently slow and cautious.

Malfoy’s pale skin and jewel-toned pajamas are a pleasant contrast against the red-brown leather.

Objectively.

If you’re in to that sort of thing.

“Tea?” Harry asks. “Cobbler will be ready in another fifteen minutes.”

Malfoy is absently petting the chunky-knit, dark green, angora blanket that Harry had also purchased on Amazon. It cost nearly as much as the sofa.

“Sure,” he says.

When Harry gets back with his tea, Malfoy is asleep.

Harry bites his lip, wondering if the charms he’d put on the sofa for restfulness and comfort were maybe a bit much for a non-magical body, but Malfoy seems just fine. And he could probably use the sleep.

Harry turns off the timer on the oven and sets one via a visible, soundless, spell instead.

He whispers a few protective spells around the barn, just to be safe, and then he eases his way onto the opposite end of the sofa and turns on the TV’s subtitles.

He’s eaten two pieces of cobbler and is nearly asleep himself, when Draco sits up suddenly, clutching at the blanket he’d been cuddling.

“No tornados yet,” Harry supplies. “Cobbler is in the kitchen. And your tea has gone cold but I can fix that if you like.”

Malfoy blinks at him.

Then he blinks at the television, where the Wicked Witch of the West is currently riding on a broom.

“What on earth are you watching?”

“Muggle film,” Harry says. “It’s called _The Wizard of Oz_.”

“Is that what they imagine witches look like? Green and all that.”

“Some of them. The bad ones, I guess. Glenda the Good Witch isn’t green. She’s white and has a fancy dress and a crown and diamonds on her wand.”

“Well that’s absurd. Any jewels would interfere with the magical properties of the core.”

“I don’t think the muggles who made it actually care about real wand lore.”

Malfoy considers the TV for an introspective minute.

“Explain the plot of this film to me.”

Harry does.

“So,” Malfoy says, after a bit of back and forth about flying monkeys. “So you’ve decided, in your infinite wisdom, to watch a film where a house gets picked up and dropped on a witch during a tornado…while there’s an active tornado watch on the county.”

“Er…yes?”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“Shhh,” Harry says, throwing a wandless warming spell at Malfoy’s tea. “Just watch the movie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Don't mind me, just doing a bit of worldbuilding.
> 
> Still alive. Very busy. The dissertation is coming along well. Moving is happening. Deacon is a good boy. I will try to have the next chapter up in 2 weeks!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: blood (a character is injured)

Draco wakes up warm and lacking any discernible discomfort. In fact, he is…exceedingly, rather shockingly, comfortable, considering that he’s tucked under Harry Potter’s blanket on Harry Potter’s sofa while Harry Potter, sitting on the opposite end of the same sofa, watches television. He likely wouldn’t have woken at all if it wasn’t for a relatively pressing need to visit the bathroom.

He blinks a few times, shifts the blanket off his shoulder—which, he doesn’t recall unfolding it, had Potter—? No. Surely not—and stands up.

“Still no tornados,” Potter supplies helpfully. “But the radar looks like it’s about to get pretty bad. Do you want something to eat?”

“Bathroom,” Draco manages, and then, because Potter is clearly making an effort to be civil, “Please.”

Potter points him to the walled-off area beneath the loft and Draco pushes aside the quilt currently serving as a door to enter the rustic room.

And rustic it is.

He pauses for a moment, just beside the galvanised metal sink, and squints.

“You have a _stock tank_ as a bathtub,” he shouts.

And obviously Potter must be aware of this fact, but it still seems to need saying out loud.

“Yeah,” Potter yells back. “Works great! If you fold a towel over the edge it makes a nice pillow. And it was a lot cheaper than getting a tub off of Amazon.”

“You can buy bathtubs on Amazon?”

“Mmhm. You can also get them at the Tractor Supply in Lewisville.”

Charming.

Draco uses the, thankfully normal and not co-opted from _farming equipment_ , toilet, washes his hands, avoids looking in the mirror, and then returns to the living area.

It really is much improved with the paint and the sofa and the rug, the little cushions and massive blanket, the softly glowing floor-lamp. It’s like an island of habitation in the expanse of empty concrete space, but it’s a rather cosy island all the same.

It reminds him, oddly, of the Slytherin common room. Not just because of the green colour palette, but the different textures and the low sepia light and the…safe-ness, maybe. He feels safe. For the first time in longer than he cares to admit.

There’s a warm piece of cobbler waiting on the coffee table when he sits on the sofa again and Draco takes his time eating it, trying to determine what’s happening in the new film Potter is watching. It features a soft, expressive, white-haired man and a lean, serpentine, yellow-eyed man who seem rather mad for each other.

“Good Omens,” Potter says, as if that’s supposed to mean something to him.

Within a few minutes, the rain picks up and the wind turns distinctly howl-y. Potter checks the weather on his phone and then actually uses his wand to cast a few spells instead of throwing them around with a distracted hand which should probably make Draco nervous but doesn’t. He just feels drowsy. Besides, he’s currently sitting next to one of the most powerful wizards in the world. It’s unlikely a little _weather_ is going to be a problem for the Chosen One. Draco wraps himself in the blanket that is quickly becoming his favourite thing, possibly ever, and  returns his attention to the television. He rather likes television, he’s finding. Pansy told him it was a wonderful muggle invention but he didn’t really understand until Billy left her laptop with him one night, complete with a cache of films on standby for her grandchildren. He traded sleep for a Disney marathon and regretted nothing the following day. Aladdin was rather diverting, even if they did get genies and magic carpets all wrong. He’d worked his way through most of Dreamworks and Pixar over the following weeks and it took him an embarrassingly long time to realise that muggles also made films with real people acting in them. He watched the Pirates of the Caribbean films a dozen times each—for the plot, certainly _not_ to goggle at the very fit Will Turner—before Billy stopped letting him keep her laptop overnight, citing fears about his sleep habits. But it was enough to decide Pansy was entirely correct. The muggles really were onto something with this television stuff. 

He misses Pansy, he thinks, hiking the blanket a little further up his shoulders. He’s well aware that he gets maudlin when he’s tired and he really ought to either go to sleep or make an effort to wake up, but instead he drifts, warm and somehow simultaneously content, yet sad. He misses all of his friends: Theo and Blaise and Vince and Greg. But Pansy was—Pansy was his best friend. And he misses her the most. Her dry sarcasm. The citrus perfume she’d worn since they were fourteen. The way she’d play with his hair. He hopes she’s fully recovered now. 

She didn’t deserve what they did to her.

There’s a sudden static in the air that raises the hair on the back of Draco’s neck, preceding a sharp crack of lightning that briefly turns the night-black window behind the television into a purple and white fractal painting.

The power flickers, goes out, and thunder rolls over them in a bass blanket of sound amplified by the abrupt darkness.

Draco blinks.

A jagged, bright, rift is left superimposed over the shadowed room.

He blinks some more.

“Bugger,” Potter says. 

His face lights up a moment later, a heatless flame cupped in his palms, and he turns to look at Draco, frowning a little.

The fire in Potter’s hands illuminates his own lightning scar, a spiderweb of pale tissue that bisects his eyebrow and goes thin and spindly at his temple.

Draco had always thought the scar was rather cool, though he’d certainly never admit it.

“You alright?” Potter asks.

“Fine,” he says.

Potter tosses the little flame into the air, then makes a dozen more, sending them up to float a few feet above them, directionless, bumping into each other, and spinning off to ricochet against the kitchen cabinets.

Draco has the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

“I really didn’t mean to upset you,” Potter says.

Draco’s impulse to laugh abruptly vanishes.

“What?”

“When—with your wand. I hadn’t thought about, uh. I hadn’t thought things through. Clearly. So, I apologise for that.”

Draco clears his throat. “Yes, well. Perhaps I overreacted. As I said, you were either being cruel or stupid and past experience says it’s likely the latter. Ignorance can’t be helped.”

“I’m not sure if I should thank you or be insulted.”

“Definitely ignorance, then,” Draco murmurs.

Potter has the audacity to grin at him.

Like Draco isn’t do his level best to insult him.

Draco sighs. 

“In the interest of—”

He pauses. Starts again.

“If we’re offering olive branches, as it were, did you mean what you said the other day? About not knowing your genetic or cultural heritage?” 

“What?” Potter says dumbly.

“At the shop. When that stupid brute of a man asked where you were from.”

“Oh,” Potter considers the question for a moment. “No? I mean, yeah, I don’t know. I grew up thinking my parents died in a car crash. And. I knew my dad must not have been white, but my Aunt and Uncle never—I’ve got a few pictures, now. Sirius and Remus told me some stories about my parents--Dad was a pureblood, mum was muggle-born. But nothing about like. The history there.”

Draco is more than a little horrified. Obviously he has previously put too much stock in his own ancestry, but to have _no idea_ about your family history? Your magical lineage? He can’t imagine that.

“The Potters were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” he says. “So there’s extensive documentation of marriages and bloodlines and such that you should be able to access at the archives de sorcellerie.”

“The what?”

“There are several wizarding archives in Rocamadour. The archivists are specially trained and well-paid for their efforts in preservation and guardianship. The archives de sorcellerie began as a joint effort between the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s heads of household back in—oh, the eighteenth century, I believe.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “How would—I mean. Would they just let me look at things? Won’t I need some kind of identification or special permission?”

Draco only just resists a sarcastic response.

He is trying to be kind, after all.

Apparently his eyebrows say what his mouth does not—he never did have much control over them— because Potter laughs, self-deprecating, and rubs the back of his neck.

“Alright. Fair. I guess my face is probably special permission enough.” 

Perhaps he isn’t entirely hopeless.

Draco clears his throat. “The Malfoys and Potters were also allies for several generations. So my family’s library’s personal records may be useful as well for more mundane things. Photographs. Letters. That sort of thing.”

Potter’s eyes are very, very, wide.

“ _Allies_?”

“Mm. Political, mostly. A few unbreakable vows and joint investments. Amusingly, there was a tentative agreement between our grandfathers to marry a pair of their children should they be amenable. But then my father and yours were both only children who conveniently despised each other, so.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Yes. I suspected.”

Draco turns his attention to the thick, knobby, edge of the blanket. “Anyway. If you—if that’s something you’d like to look into I could assist you, possibly.”

“I would,” Potter says. “I would, very much. Yes. Thank you.”

Draco shrugs.

There’s another crackle of lightning and Potter stands, moving to the window. 

“Looks like the power is out at the potions barn too. You mind if I run down and turn on the generators?”

Draco waves an agreeable hand.

“As long as the lights don’t follow you. Is there more cobbler?” he asks, moving to stand himself.

There very clearly is more cobbler, sitting in full view on the counter, but he and Potter both ignore that fact.

“Oh, yeah. Help yourself. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Draco takes his time slicing himself a piece of cobbler, re-slicing it when the first piece is perhaps a bit too small, and then fills a mason jar with milk. Bowl and glass in hand, he returns to the living room.

Except he forgets about the rug.

Or he doesn’t _forget_ , exactly, he just…doesn’t think to step up onto it. It’s dark and he’s tired and his bare toes catch at the bottom of the high pile and he finds himself crashing onto the floor in a wake of spilled milk and shattered crockery.

The impact: palms, then elbow, then hip, knocks something loose in his chest and he has to pause, on hands and knees, to cough for a full minute before he can sit up and survey the shadowed damage. 

He has likely ruined Potter’s rug.

And it’s equally unlikely that Potter actually knows the appropriate cleaning spell to fix it. Then again, apparently Potter doesn’t _have_ to know spells to effectively use them. Draco can probably just tell him the words and he’ll say them and maybe wave a hand and it’ll just _work_.

Draco stands laboriously, palms smarting, abstractly thinking about whether or not Potter owns muggle cleaning supplies or if he should just wait and let Potter deal with the mess when he gets back, and then promptly sits right back down again because he’s just—

Oh shit.

He’s stepped on a piece of broken glass.

Not a piece—a _shard_ —a, a veritable _weapon_ , which is now lodged a solid inch into the sole of his right foot.

He pulls it out without thinking.

Because glass _doesn’t belong_ in his foot.

Except once the glass is removed the bleeding starts.

And it doesn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he says, and then, louder, because the reality of the situation is sinking in, “FUCK.”

He clamps both hands around his insole, realises that’s completely useless, and lays flat on his back, probably getting cobbler and milk and more broken glass all over his pajamas, so he can stick his foot up in the air.

That’s what you’re supposed to do, he remembers. _Elevate the appendage to minimise blood flow_.

Except he’s pretty sure the blood flow is not minimising.

And he hasn’t had a blood potion in over a week.

And he’s—well. 

This admittedly wasn’t one of the things he was most concerned about. He always thought the shitty lungs would kill him first, not the coagulation disorder.

But here he is, likely spending the last moments of his life covered in peach cobbler, lying in Potter’s living room with his leg in the air.

What an utterly embarrassing way to go.

He hopes he passes out quickly so he doesn’t have to deal with the indignity of _experiencing_ this much longer. He thinks there’s milk in his hair.

“Malfoy?” Potter yells.

Ah. Maybe he won’t die after all.

“Malfoy, I can smell blood. Are you— _what the hell_ —”

The room suddenly blazes with light and Draco almost wishes it was dark again because there’s a wash of red, red, blood all the way down his calf, pooling between the fallen material of his pajama bottoms and the slightly bent hollow of his knee.

“Oh fuck,” Potter says. “What even—”

“Do you know any blood clotting spells?” Draco asks faintly.

Potter throws a stasis spell at him instead, which, of course Aurors aren’t taught first aid. Just freeze injuries and let someone else deal with them later. Brilliant.

“I was gone for _three minutes_ ,” Potter says, “How did this even happen? How are you bleeding _so much_?”

“Told you,” Draco mutters, feeling rather nice and floaty, all things considered. “Inbreeding.”

Potter runs a hand through his hair.

“Ok. The nearest wizarding hospital is in Nashville. It’s a bit of a jump, but I can apparate us there and then—”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean _no_. For one thing, I’m not a wizard anymore so it’s unlikely they’ll admit me.”

“Regular hospital then?”

“With what identification? You need—health insurance and forms and… things. Besides. If I go to the hospital they likely won’t let me leave any time soon.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m _dying_ , Potter. How many times do I have to—”

A cough interrupts him and he focuses on getting through it and not passing out. It occurs to him he probably doesn’t need to keep his leg up in the air anymore, which is a bit of a relief.

“Will you stop saying that and explain what you _mean by it_?”

“What part is confusing for you?”

“ _Draco!_ ”

“The Ministry took away my magic with the full intent to kill me and it is assuredly working. I’ve got a blood clotting disorder and a half dozen other things wrong with me and I refuse to die as a captive in a medical institution, wizarding or muggle. Now,” Draco says, managing to sound imperious despite a truly concerning amount of blood loss, “would you please make yourself useful.”

“Okay. _Okay._ ” Potter stands. “I’m going to call Ginny.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Because she’s—”

“She’s twelve!”

“She’s eighteen and she’s flat-sharing with Luna who’s in a dual medical/healing program and Luna doesn’t have a mobile phone so Ginny is probably the fastest way to reach her.”

“Fine. But have them send for Pansy too,” Draco says.

“Parkinson?”

“If my last moments are going to occur in your living room covered in cobbler detritus with my batty cousin experimenting on me I’d at least like a friend to hold my hand through the indignity of it all. Besides, I was there all three of the times she nearly died. It’s time she returned the favour.”

Potters expression does something complicated.

“Fine. Whatever. Don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Just, uh,” he coughs again and his vision goes a tad blurry. “As a passing curiosity, how long do your stasis spells usually last?”

“As long as they need to,” Potter growls.

Draco closes his eyes.

“Oh, good.”

Draco opens his eyes an unknown amount of time later to two cracks of apparition in quick succession.

There’s Granger, and—

“You’re the wrong Weasley,” Draco mumbles. “Fucking Potter.”

“What?” Potter says.

Ah. It appears that Potter is holding his hand. How embarrassing.

“Wrong Weasley,” he points out. 

“No,” Potter says, “Ginny and Luna are coming, they were just waiting for Pansy to come through at the portkey office, they’ll be here any sec—”

And there they are.

Pansy shoves Potter aside a moment later and Draco takes a long, relieved breath into her neck. Her bobbed hair swings down over his face as he closes his eyes.

“Watch the glass,” he says. She’s wearing white trousers. They probably won’t stay that way for long.

“And the—blood. Your trousers.”

“I do not fucking care about my fucking outfit, Draco. Honestly, bleeding to death in Potter’s kitchen? Unacceptable. Do better.”

He agrees.

He opens his eyes to find Luna poking at his leg, wand out, some sort of blue shimmery thing hanging about his foot.

“That’s weird,” he points out.

“It’s diagnostic,” girl-Weasley says.

Her hair is different: shaved at the back and sides, longer and swooped up at the top. She’s cut the sleeves off her Holyhead Harpies T-shirt and has a magical tattoo down one freckled arm that seems to involve several dragons and at least one hippogriff in a fight to the death. She’s probably put on nearly as much muscle as Potter has and she’s eyeing Luna with an appreciation that, even in his hindered state, appears more than platonic.

No wonder she and Potter’s relationship didn’t work out, Draco thinks distractedly.

Boy-Weasley appears annoying fit as well, arms crossed, muscles looking particularly…muscle-y. Luna looks oddly professional in a set of mint scrubs, Pansy is dressed straight off the Parisian runway and Granger, wearing a blazer and sensible red flats looks like she’s preparing to stage a fashionable coup.

It’s not fair, really. Everyone has gone and become more attractive except for him.

“You’re a doctor?” Draco asks his cousin.

“Oh not really,” Luna says confidently. “Just a second-year student. But I’m your best option at the moment, I think.”

“Lovely,” Pansy says. “We’re so grateful.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Luna says.

Pansy sighs.

Ginny glowers.

Draco tries to stay conscious.

Luna does an assortment of things to him whilst Pansy hisses at her to be careful and Ginny hisses back that she should shut the fuck up and let Luna work.

“Well?” Potter says finally.

He seems impatient.

“Well,” Luna agrees.

Draco laughs.

Maybe.

He laughs on the inside, at least.

“His foot should be fine as long as he stays off it for a day or two,” she says airily. “Spells can’t do much for blood loss, though. You said you have a potions lab?”

“Yeah, over in the other barn.”

“We’ll need to go there next, then. Ginny, you can help me. Pansy, I’m assuming you’ll want to stay with Draco?”

“Merlin, no,” Pansy says.  “I was second-best potioneer in our House after Draco. _I’ll_ help make whatever he needs and your _girlfriend_ can watch.”

Oh good, Pansy noticed the sexual tension too.

“I’ll stay with Malfoy,” Potter says as Ginny splutters something about them not being girlfriends. “Is he—so he just needs a potion and he’ll be okay?” Potter asks.

“No,” Luna says. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Everyone just stares at her for several seconds.

“Without magic, his overall condition is really not ideal,” she adds.

“What does _not ideal_ mean?” Harry asks.

“It means he’s fucked,” Ginny supplies helpfully.

“Ginny,” Ron mutters.

Ginny gives him the finger.

Draco finds her frankness rather nice, actually.

Terrible, finding anything about a Weasley nice, but there they are.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay, so he’s ill. But can you, er. Fix him?”

Pansy scoffs.

“No,” Luna says. 

“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

Luna looks down at Draco and they just sort of stare at each other for a moment before he realises she’s probably waiting for his permission.

“Oh, you may as well,” he says sourly.

Luna pats his knee.

“Draco has Von Willebrand Disease, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and Scoliosis, oh, and a number of food sensitivities.”

Huh. Draco didn’t know about the last one. Maybe that’s why his mouth feels funny when he eats bananas, now.

Potter is practically vibrating next to him.

“What does that _mean_?”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Pansy says, grabbing Luna’s wrist. “We’re wasting time. Draco, deal with Potter, will you? We need to go get started on the potions.”

Ginny eyes Pansy’s hand on Luna’s arm with a level of malevolence that Draco finds impressive.

“That’s probably wise,” Hermione says. “I can help too.”

“Take the wrong Weasley as well,” Draco says. He’d rather be alone with Potter than alone with Potter _and_ —

Oh. Ha. Wrong Weasley. Sounds like Ron Weasley. Convenient, that.

He realises maybe he’s said this out loud when everyone pauses to look at him.

“Yes,” Luna says. “I think we ought to start the potions, now.”

There’s another crack of apparition and Blaise stumbles a few steps before righting himself., 

“You told _Blaise_?” Draco whines at Pansy.

He’s never going to live this down.

“Of _course_ I told Blaise,” she snaps.

“You’re dead to me.”

“You’re the one dying, arsehole.”

“Point.”

“Ah,” Blaise says, tugging his shirt straight. “Good. Apologies for the late arrival, the instructions I had weren’t the best and it took a few tries to find the right place. I think I rather startled your neighbours’ cows, Potter. Or are the cows the neighbours? I’m unfamiliar with muggle bovine personhood.”

Blaise grins down at Draco.

“I see you’re still alive. Excellent news.”

He glances at the assembled people in the room.

“Right. Well. Hello everyone, what did I miss?” __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's log:
> 
> Dissertation-writing: hard. Texas: hot. Deacon: good.
> 
> If you commented on the last chapter and I didn't respond: You are amazing and I love you. I just have. No time. Sorry! See you in two weeks!


	9. Chapter 9

It’s actually something of a relief when everyone leaves.

Harry is so used to living alone—admittedly with visits from Malfoy—that suddenly having _seven_ additional moving talking bodies in his usually silent home is a little overwhelming.

Malfoy makes a relieved noise that Harry can fully empathise with once the door has closed behind their exit.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks.

Malfoy makes another sort of noise, one that says Harry is an idiot. It’s a familiar sound.

“Guess that was a stupid question.”

“Yes.”

Malfoy closes his eyes and Harry moves a few inches closer, using the toe of his Converse to nudge some larger pieces of glass out of the way.

“Can you—” Harry pauses. He considers the pallor of Malfoy’s face. The purple-blue veins visible through the parchment of his skin. The fact that he looks close to death does nothing to diminish the strangely pretty, ethereal quality of his pointed features.

If you were into that sort of thing.

“Did you know?” Harry asks. “About all the things that are wrong with you?”

“The food allergies were a surprise,” Malfoy says.

Harry notices a clump of peach clinging to Malfoy’s hair and pulls it out before it occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t.

Malfoy opens his eyes.

Wide.

Grey.

Harry smears the fruit on the concrete by his knee, face hot. “You’ve got, er. Some cobbler in your hair. If you want, I can—”

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

Harry reaches forward and Malfoy closes his eyes again.

“I was diagnosed at St. Mungo’s,” he says. “A month after my sentencing when I became symptomatic. They released me without a treatment plan and told me I’d have to consult with muggle doctors henceforth since I wasn’t, strictly speaking, a Wizard anymore. Part of the punishment, perhaps—dealing with muggle medical practices. Or maybe they just didn’t want to have a Malfoy as a patient. It necessitated extra security, then. So soon after the war.” 

“That’s not fair, though,” Harry says, and Malfoy laughs, maybe, before it turns into a cough. 

“It’s _not,_ ” Harry insists. “You’re still a wizard. Just basically a squib for a few years. And then you’ll be back to normal.”

“You can’t be that naive,” Malfoy says. He sounds exhausted, rather than angry. “I’m not going to live another year, much less another four. I’ll be dead long before my sentence is complete. Which is exactly what the council wanted.”

Harry doesn’t say anything.

He can’t.

Because even though Hermione essentially already told him the same thing, he— he’s so angry he’s afraid he might shift despite the fact that the full moon is over a week away.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I’ll assume from the stupid look on your face that you didn’t actually know you were endorsing my death sentence when you spoke at the trial?”

“No,” Harry says.

The word sounds woefully inadequate.

“When I approached them about speaking on your behalf I wanted to get you a lighter sentence. I though losing magic for a few years would be a slap on the wrist compared to Azkaban.”

Malfoy lets his lip curl, the full brunt of his condescension still palpable despite the fact that Harry is picking fruit out of his hair.

“It boggles the mind, Potter, that you were capable of defeating the Dark Lord,” he says.

“Believe me, I’m aware. And I didn’t, really. Not by myself. I would have been dead if not for Hermione and Ron—his whole family, really—and Neville and Luna and Remus and—” he swallows around Sirius’ name.

“Oh stop. Mocking you isn’t any fun if you get all dire.”

“Sorry.”

Malfoy sighs.

“Help me sit up. I’m reasonably sure I won’t pass out and I refuse to be _sticky_ any longer.”

Harry isn’t certain that’s a good idea, but he’s equally unsure how to say ‘no.’

He gets Malfoy onto the sofa with only minor death threats and then Malfoy talks him through several cleaning spells which Harry thinks he accomplishes pretty well, despite Malfoy’s complaints about execution. And then Harry summons down some pyjamas for him—or Harry’s version of pyjamas, anyway: a t-shirt and soft cotton trousers—and dutifully turns his back while Malfoy slowly undresses and redresses himself to a muttered litany on insults about fashion taste and fabric quality. When Malfoy finally tells him he can turn around again, Harry does not have any thoughts or feelings about the way his clothes hang on Malfoy’s skinny frame, making him look small and vulnerable and like someone who ought to be _cared for_.

He feels like something in his chest is whining.

Luckily, his phone pings and the habitual movement of checking it—hand into pocket, thumb over lock screen—is a relief.

There’s a flood warning for the county, but no more tornado watches.

It occurs to him that he’s been sort of just…powering all the lights in the barn since he first found Malfoy, and he winces, not entirely sure how he’s doing it or how to make it stop.

Malfoy follows his attention to the light fittings.

“Is the power still supposed to be out?”

“Yeah.”

“So _you’re_ doing that, then?”

“Think so.”

“You don’t even knowhow you’re doing it, do you?”

“Er. No.”

“You’re a train wreck, Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.

“ _Nox_ should work. For you, anyway,” Malfoy says, and it sounds resigned.

Sure enough, it does.

Except then Harry is left in mostly-darkness with just the floating lights he’s created, now drifted all the way up to the rafters, making things all sepia-toned and shadow-y and Malfoy warm and slow-breathing beside him.

Harry clears his throat. “Have you seen muggle doctors?” 

“No. Well. I was examined by Pansy’s private physician several months ago, off the record, when I was…visiting her. In France. The physician was willing to treat me, but I would have had to move to France and the expense was—it’s not like dual-certified muggle and wizarding doctors are covered by the NHS or EHIC and even with treatment she estimated I had less than three years. No point, really.”

“So you just _gave up_? Just—left? I don’t—”

“What _else_ was I supposed to do?” Malfoy snarls, and it’s—

It’s the first time Malfoy has raised his voice in the months since Harry first encountered him at Daughters.

“Tell me, Potter. What was I supposed to do? Write to the papers about how unfair it was? Throw myself at the mercy of the masses and beg for my life? Most of them want me dead anyway. I couldn’t ask my friends or their families for money because they’re struggling enough trying to recover from the war—financially or socially or both—without the blight of helping a Malfoy on their record. I _had_ no other options and I wasn’t about to let my mother watch me die. Here, at least, I can have a bit of peace first. Or I thought I would anyway. Apparently there’s no peace to be had if the Chosen One is about.”

It seems Malfoy abruptly runs out of words. Or maybe air. He coughs a few times, brings one hand up to his head, and sighs.

“Ah, apparently I was wrong.”

“What?”

“I _am_ going to pass out after all.”

“ _What?_ ”

Malfoy passes out.

After several frantic seconds of whispering “shitshitshitshit” Harry gets his act together and sends a patronus to Luna while checking if Malfoy is still breathing (yes) and still has a heartbeat (yes). And then he shifts Malfoy so he’s laid out more comfortably on the sofa, crouches on the floor next to him, and keeps his thumb pressed to the pulse in his pale, pale, wrist.

His wrist feels very breakable between Harry’s fingers.

“If you’ve killed him,” Pansy says, apparating into the kitchen seconds later, “I’ll—”“

“I haven’t _killed_ him.”

Except.

Well.

He sort of has, hasn’t he? 

Not yet.

But eventually.

Maybe even soon.

Harry sits back on his heels, feeling winded, and allows Pansy to shove him aside.

The others arrive in a series of cracks, Hermione and Luna holding glass jars.

“What happened?” Luna asks, pulling out her wand.

“We had a bit of an argument. And then he just sort of—”

“And why is he on the sofa instead of where we left him?” Luna asks.

“Because Potter is an idiot,” Pansy says.

“He said he didn’t want to be sticky or on the floor anymore. Was I supposed to tell him _no_?”

“Fair point,” Blaise says

“You could have helped him without _provoking_ him, though,” Pansy shouts, “Aren’t Aurors trained in de-escalation?”

Ginny scoffs.

“It’s _Malfoy,_ ”Harry says.

“Also a fair point,” Ron says.

“If everyone could stop shrieking that would be lovely,” Malfoy murmurs and oh—

His eyes are open. They’re not very focused, admittedly, but they’re open.

“Oh good,” Luna says. “Do you think you can sit up and drink this?”

Harry and Pansy both reach forward to help and Harry definitely does not feel slighted when Malfoy accepts Pansy’s hand and not his.

He takes a sip of the purple-brown liquid, makes a moue of distaste, and then tips up the rest, swallowing it quickly.

“It’s not at full potency yet,” Luna says. “But it should alleviate the worst of things. We’ll have a full-strength dose for you to take in another hour. And several more to top you off over the next few days.”

She gestures to Hermione who’s in the process of putting two jars in the fridge.

“And there’s pain relief and breathing potions on simmer that I should get back to if you’re feeling better, now.”

“I’m fantastic,” Malfoy says, looking anything but.

Luna glances around the room. “Alright. Perhaps the rest of you should stay here this time.”

Harry feels like he should probably be insulted by that.

“Nah,” Ginny says. “I’m with you.”

“Shocking,” Pansy mutters.

Luna and Ginny elect to walk back to the potions barn rather than apparating, despite the fact that the rain has picked up even further.

“Ginny has an excellent umbrella spell—” Luna says.

“Does she?” Pansy asks innocently.

“—and the smell of rain reminds me of a holiday dad and I took to Scotland one year. To see the Erumpet migration, of course. Rained the whole time. It was lovely.”

“Was it,” Pansy says, even more dryly.

Ginny flips her two fingers, discreetly, as she offers Luna her arm.

“So, Potter,” Blaise says, once they’re gone, arranging himself, rather artfully, on the sofa at Malfoy’s feet. “Are we supposed to pretend like we didn’t notice the excessive amount of wolfsbane you’re growing in your little indoor muggle garden? Or is that something we can talk about? Because I admit I’m curious.”

“ _Blaise_ ,” Malfoy says.

“Yes, dear?” Blaise answers.

“Oh,” Harry says. “That’s because Malfoy is a werewolf. Obviously.”

“He’s _what_?” Blaise says, half-standing. “He _can’t_ be. He’d—oh. _Oh_. Ha bloody ha. Very funny, Potter.”

He drops back onto the leather, looking cross.

Harry is actually sort of proud of himself.

Except—

“Wait,” he says. “Could that help?”

“Your humor?” Malfoy asks. “Unlikely. In any situation.”

“No,” Harry says. “What if—werewolves have accelerated healing, right? Would that help? To turn you?”

“How on earth did you manage to defeat the Dark Lord?” Pansy asks.

“Literally just asked that,” Malfoy murmurs. “Apparently he had help.”

“He’d have had to,” Blaise says. “Honestly.”

“If you could not all be condescending dicks,” Hermione says, “That would be lovely. Harry spent half his childhood being raised by abusive muggles and the other half being hunted by Voldemort so you can see how it’s understandable that he’s not intimately familiar with some aspects of the wizarding world.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ron says.

Harry curls his hands into fists, then consciously relaxes his fingers.

One by one.

“Could someone please explain to me why that wouldn’t help?”

“He wouldn’t survive the change,” Hermione says lowly. “You have to be in excellent physical condition or it will kill you. Draco is too ill.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“So keep your teeth to yourself,” Malfoy mutters.

“Or at least make sure not to break the skin,” Blaise says.

Despite the fact that Malfoy is rather short on blood at the moment, he manages a feeble flush.

“So what _can_ we do,” Harry says.

“ _We_?” Pansy repeats. The derision in her voice is cutting.

“Yeah, _we_ ,” Harry answers. And it’s not quite a snarl but it’s close. “It’s my fault he’s ill and if you think I’m just going to let him _die_ because the Ministry wants a scapegoat to use as—as an example or something—”

“Alright,” Blaise interrupts. “Easy, Potter.”

Harry does growl then.

And then he abruptly realises why Blaise, and nearly everyone else in the room, looks so cautious. Because his eyesight is sharper and he can smell _everything_ and his teeth feel a tad too big for his mouth.

“While your company is certainly better when you’re a dog,” Draco says, the only one showing no fear whatsoever, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go all furry right now, Potter.”

“It’s not even the full moon,” Pansy murmurs. “How is he—”

Harry concentrates on breathing for a moment.

“What.” He repeats. “Can. We. Do.”

“Luna said he’ll need a mix of potions and muggle medicine—breathing treatments, mostly,” Hermione says. “She’s going to work on finding a way to get him some prescriptions next week.”

“He also shouldn’t be living alone,” Pansy adds. “Because all manner of things could go wrong—like tonight—but we already know he’ll refuse to stay with us—”

“It’s not like he could actually stop us from kidnapping him at this point,” Blaise points out.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Ron mutters.

“I mean,” Blaise continues. “He probably weighs less than _you_ now, Pans. What’s he going to do, hurt our feelings?”

“With alacrity,” Malfoy murmurs.

“He can just move in here,” Harry says.

“No,” Malfoy says.

“Well either you move in with Potter or we take you back to London,” Blaise says. “But you wasting away alone isn’t an option anymore. Which would you rather?”

“He’ll move in here,” Harry repeats. It’s maybe a lower register than his usual speaking voice.

No one appears interested in arguing with him.

Well. Almost no one.

“There’s only one bed,” Malfoy says.

“Oh _dear,_ ” Pansy murmurs.

“I’ll make another bedroom,” Harry says. “And you can have mine for now. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I do half the time anyway.”

“You’ll change the sheets first,” Malfoy sniffs.

“Fine.”

“And you’ll take me to work every day.”

“Alright.”

“And I’ll be in charge of the plants; you aren’t allowed to touch them anymore without supervision, Potter.”

“Fine, _Malfoy_.”

“Do you think you ought to call each other by your first names at this point?” Hermione suggests.

“No,” Harry says at the same time that Malfoy sniffs “certainly not.”

They nod agreeably to each other.

Hermione sighs. “Well, I’m not calling you ‘Malfoy.’ That’s ridiculous. Especially if we’re all going to be seeing more of each other.”

“We will?” Blaise asks.

“Well,” Hermione says. “I’m assuming you’ll want to help us change the current sentences of former Death Eaters and sympathisers. Particularly participants who were underage or otherwise coerced?”

“Ah,” Pansy says. “Nice of you to care, now.”

“I cared before,” she says evenly. “But without Harry’s involvement, I also knew it would be nearly impossible to face the issue head-on. Regardless, you’ll all call me Hermione from now on.”

She and Pansy have something of a staring contest.

“Alright,” Pansy says. “Hermione.”

“It may take some getting used to,” Malfoy mutters. 

“You call Luna by _her_ first name,” Ron points out.

“Well that’s different. We’re cousins.”

“Ron might be your cousin as well,” Hermione muses. “A few times removed, of course. But you know how the old families are. Harry might even be distantly related to you.”

Ron makes a retching noise.

“No,” Malfoy corrects. “Harry’s not. I checked.”

“Oh did you?” Pansy says innocently. “You checked to make sure you and Potter weren’t related?”

“Shocking,” Blaise says. “I’m shocked. So shocked. So very shocked. Aren’t you shocked, Pans?”

“Terribly.”

“I hate you both,” Malfoy hisses, closing his eyes again.

“I don’t understand,” Harry says.

“Your default setting, I’m sure,” Pansy murmurs. 

“Could you maybe not insult me in my own home?”

“I could, yes.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Hermione says. “If we can all act like adults for a few minutes, I think we should discuss how we want to proceed.”

“Proceed?” Pansy asks. She sounds bored.

“With getting Draco’s sentence repealed. Among other things. Obviously there are some internal things I can work on, but I think a full-frontal approach may be our best option.”

“Love those,” Blaise murmurs.

Pansy slaps his leg.

“You mean Potter goes to the press?” Pansy asks. “Gives rousing speeches about unity and fairness?”

Harry doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Press, yes, speeches, no.”

Small mercies, he supposes.

“But,” Hermione says. “I’m thinking something a little more involved than a newspaper story. There are dozens of people who received overly harsh sentences. Yourself included, Pansy. Especially considering that there was no evidence that you and your family were even sympathisers.”

“Yes, well. You suggest sacrificing the Golden Boy in front of hundreds of witnesses and little things like evidence don’t matter so much,” Pansy says.

“My point,” Hermione says. “Is that if we can compile a lot of stories—not the people who deserved harsh sentences, but stories like yours, like Draco’s, all the young people and the people who were blackmailed. If we can make it clear that the Ministry has been overstepping its bounds and intentionally hurting people—”

“Torturing,” Blaise suggests, “Murdering.”

“Yes,” Hermione agrees. “Because they have an agenda based more on revenge than justice. If we can prove that. Show that to people. I think we have a chance of forcing re-sentencing.”

“Where Potter will give an inspirational speech.”

“Well,” Hermione says. “Yes.”

Harry sighs.

“Sorry,” she says. “I know you said—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts. “Whatever you need.”

“I have some thoughts,” Pansy says.

“Oh good,” Hermione says. “Harry, can you power the kettle for a moment? Pansy, tea?”

“Please,” Pansy says.

Harry snaps his fingers at the kettle and shifts so he’s sitting rather than squatting.

“If those two become friends,” Malfoy murmurs, voice still concerningly quiet, “it may be the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

Harry considers Malfoy’s drawn face and quietly disagrees.

An hour later, Pansy, Hermione, Blaise, and Ron are tucked into a surprisingly friendly circle around the coffee table, home to several large pieces of paper, mostly filled with Hermione’s tidy handwriting, and a half-dozen mugs of tea.

Luna and Ginny are making masking tape labels for mason jars full of various-coloured liquids in the kitchen, and Harry is feeling rather useless, sitting with his back to the sofa, one ear on Malfoy’s heartbeat, the other on the rain outside.

“—really is brilliant,” Blaise is saying, leaning in close to Hermione, ostensibly so he can tap something she’s just written. “There’s no need to modest. I always told Pansy it was unfair you were intelligent _and_ beautiful.”

“No he didn’t,” Pansy says.

“Oi,” Ron says. “That’s my girlfriend you’re chatting up.”

“Yes, you have excellent taste. Blaise’s eyes slide slowly down to Ron’s thighs, then back up to his face. “As does she.”

“Oh. I—what?”

“Don’t be flattered,” Ginny says, closing the fridge door. “I’ve heard Blaise will sleep with anyone.”

“You heard wrong. I’ll sleep with anyone who is _attractive and consenting_. Preferably someone strong and,” he glances at Hermione, “maybe a little bossy, but with”—he raises an eyebrow at Ron—“a tender side.”

Ron goes progressively more red. Hermione bites her lip.

Pansy makes a retching noise. “He doesn’t actually,” she says. “He just pretends he’s a lothario so people continue to think he’s a stupid fuckboy and then when they’re all busy underestimating him he can take over the world.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blaise says.

Ginny looks intrigued despite herself.

“Mm,” Luna agrees, leaning back against the counter so she can study Blaise, “You do have a rather innocent aura.”

“I certainly do _not_ ,” Blaise splutters. “My aura is highly corrupted. Sullied. _Despoiled_ , even.”

“It’s really not,” Luna says.

Something nudges Harry’s hand and he glances down, surprised to see that Draco has touched two curled knuckles to the jutting bone of Harry’s wrist.

“I’m tired,” he murmurs, and he looks it: half-lidded eyes and pale skin, mussed hair.

Harry raises his voice. “Alright, everyone out. You can come back tomorrow—er, later today, but Draco needs to sleep.”

Pansy makes some affectionate threats—to both Harry and Draco—before apparating away with a hand hooked through Blaise’s bent elbow. Luna leaves a page of written instructions with Harry before leaving in a similar fashion with Ginny, and Ron and Hermione hug Harry before apparating away separately, both muttering about the trouble they’re going to be in at work for arriving so late.

“Thank you,” Draco murmurs when the house is finally quiet again—well, quiet aside from the steady rainfall outside.

“You want me to levicorp you upstairs?” Harry asks. “Or would you rather just sleep here?”

“Levicorp,” Draco scoffs, closing his eyes. “You heathens with your slang. I’m fine here.”

“Alright.”

Harry doesn’t feel comfortable leaving Malfoy alone, though.

He deposits the mugs in the sink, finishes cleaning up what he can of the broken glass and tacky milk and sugary detritus from the rug, and then sits on the counter, hands on his knees, bare heels resting on the drawer pulls of the bottom cabinets. 

He can’t go upstairs.

He isn’t sure why.

It’s just a loft, no door, not even closed off, so he’d be able to hear if Malfoy needed help.

He can’t, though.

The bruised, aching, feeling in his chest—that makes him simultaneously want to run for miles and never leave the house, presses hard and urgent against his lungs until he finds himself sliding onto the floor and pulling up his shirt and kicking off his trousers and then—

Ah.

That’s better.

He shakes, stretches, takes a moment to get used to four legs again, and then moves to climb, rather graceless despite his efforts, onto the sofa.

“Fuck's sake,” Draco mutters, cracking open one eye. “Must you?”

He must.

“You’re going to get hair everywhere.”

Harry doesn’t particularly care.

Draco shifts closer to the back of the sofa and Harry tucks himself into his side, stretched out like a long furry buffer between Draco and the rest of the world.

“We speak of this to no one,” Draco mutters

But he rests one hand, tentative and warm, on Harry’s back.

They fall asleep to the sound of rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Sorry, this update is so belated. I defended my prospectus last week (aka the thing that decides if I receive funding for the next year) and passed! Relief! 
> 
> This doesn't affect my workload, it just means I'm not having constant existential angst anymore. If you've been following me for a while, you probably shouldn't expect this fic to update as regularly as my past work. I don't have a buffer and writing a dissertation is (surprise) the most difficult and time-consuming thing I've ever tackled (and I thought qualifying exams were bad!). So apologies for what will likely be a slow updating schedule over the next several months.
> 
> In other news, I'll be taking a hiking road trip with Deacon for a week starting on the 15th. We'll go from Austin to Albuquerque to Mesa Verde to the San Juan National Forest to Telluride, where we'll meet up with my parents and hang out for a week.
> 
> I'll be working on Chpt 2 dissertation edits during the trip, but if I can get those done during the first half, I'll spend the second half writing fic in the evenings as I noodle around post-arduous-day-hikes. So expect the next update in 2-3 weeks (possibly earlier!). Also, hit up my Tumblr (Xiaq there too) for lots of pretty pictures (most of which will probably feature Deacon) as we enjoy said adventure. To those of you who are students, teachers, profs, etc--I hope your semester is off to a good start!


	10. Chapter 10

Draco wakes to the smell of soupe de poisson à la rouille.

It’s distinctive: the caramelised onions and brandy and heated beef stock. He can’t tell from scent alone if whoever is making it has added sherry or eggs but he can smell garlic and saffron and—

It smells like his childhood.

It smells like his mother.

It’s jarring, actually, as he moves from sleeping to waking—half-formed memories of standing on a stool so he could peer over the kitchen counter as his mother hand-stirred a simmering pot, singing in French; the house elves wringing their hands over their mistress doing all the work.

He sits up, pushing away the phantom feeling of his mother’s fingers in his hair; the lilt to her voice as she called him _mon prince_.

Potter has his hip braced against the kitchen counter, squinting at a sheet of paper in one hand, the other pointed—rather lazily, really, Draco thinks, but that’s to be expected from Potter—at the hob, where a spoon is stirring something in a large granite pot.

There is vegetable and herb detritus on the counter next to the stove and a second, smaller, pot in the sink that looks to have burned insides and an assortment of knives and measuring cups and bottles and eggshells spread across various accommodating surfaces.

“What,” Draco says, “and I cannot stress this enough: the fuck.”

Potter jumps and the self-stirring spoon slides despondently down into its pot.

“Bugger,” Potter mutters, and then uses another spoon to fish it out by hand instead of using his ridiculous magical ability.

The Chosen One, indeed.

“You’re awake!” Potter says.

Obviously.

“I mean, yeah. Obviously. Good. Here.”

He collects two glass jars from the fridge and hands them over the back of the sofa.

Draco downs their contents, then judges himself a little for his blind trust as he hands the empty jars back.

Then again, if Potter wanted him dead he’d have had ample opportunity over the past several weeks. He certainly wouldn’t be cuddling him in wolf form and cooking him French food, which leads Draco back to his initial question:

_What the fuck_.

“I don’t know how to pronounce it,” Potter says, because of course he doesn’t, “but Pansy said this was one of your favourite meals and I thought—well the potions look pretty awful—and I’ve been wanting new recipes to try, so.”

It seems Potter is still incapable of completing a single sentence.

However, judging by Draco’s past experience with Potter’s culinary experiments…he’s not an incapable cook.

“It smells good,” Draco allows.

Potter grins: crooked and honest, and scrubs a hand through the back of his hair, the bit not tied up into a stupid topknot on the crown of his head.

“Ah. Good. It should be ready in just a minute. I know it’s not exactly breakfast food but it’s past breakfast time anyway and—”

Draco sits all the way up from the disaffected slouch he’d been carefully constructing.

“No. What time is it? The deliveries. I was—”

“Oh,” Potter says, abruptly turning back to the stove. “Don’t worry about that. I took care of it.”

Draco is uncertain how to respond.

He decides on: “Sorry?”

“The whole—parcel delivery. Thing. I took care of it. Pansy came and sat with you for a few hours while I went and picked them up and uh. Delivered them. So you still have your job. If you want it, I mean. You probably shouldn’t be working so much anyway, and if you’re living here—”

“I’m not living here.”

“Oh look,” Potter says. “Food’s ready. Also, Pansy and Blaise will be back for dinner. Apparently Blaise’s mother was able to set up a permanent portkey at their manor which is—”

“Likely illegal,” Draco sighs. “Unsurprising, considering. _Why_ are they coming back for dinner?” He glances towards the clock above the oven but can’t see it without his glasses. “And what time is it?”

“Almost one in the afternoon. And Pansy said they didn’t trust you here alone with a bunch of Gryffindors. Also, Ron and Hermione and Luna and Ginny are coming for an early dinner.”

“Fantastic.”

Draco considers going back to sleep and remaining unconscious through to the next day so he doesn’t have to deal with the prospect.

“I also phoned Billy and let her know you’re ill. She said to take a week off and she’d handle things until you’re feeling better. Also she thinks it’s good you’re moving in with me so you probably don’t have a choice, now.”

That is…likely correct.

Draco considers being furious at being so artfully _managed_ , but is frankly too exhausted.

Despite how tired he feels, however, he doesn’t really feel _bad_. He certainly doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore, which is a nice change.

“So now that you’re up we can eat and then drive over and collect your things. Luna says you should be moving as much as possible so fluid doesn’t collect in your lungs, but nothing too strenuous for the next few days.”

Potter sets a bowl on the coffee table and hands Draco a spoon and Draco is too caught up in the perfect presentation to argue with him. Which was probably by design.

“ _You_ made this?” Draco asks, just to be certain.

“Yeah. I mean. Pansy helped, a bit. Gave me a memory to work off from when you were kids and—”

“Pansy _gave you memory_?”

“Not to keep or anything. But I’ve got a Pensieve upstairs, so.”

“Pansy. Gave _you_. A memory.”

“I think she’s been really worried about you.”

Draco stares blankly at the spoon in his hand.

He’ll have to deal with…whatever this is… later. 

He takes a bite.

“It’s perfect,” he says, because it is.

“Oh, good.”

Potter sets a second bowl down and sits on the floor, digging in with an amount of gusto that is both utterly uncouth and also strangely endearing.

“So,” Draco says, forcing his attention back on his own meal. “Apparently you can become a wolf without the influence of the full moon. That’s suitably impossible of you.”

“It’s not impossible, actually. Or—it’s really rare, sure. But Hermione gave me a bunch of research about it. Apparently witches and wizards with really, er, heightened magical abilities?” he looks embarrassed by this sequence of words, “it’s much more likely that they can control the transformation and even do it at will regardless of moon phase. It’s like—the wolf doesn’t just take over on the full moons, it sort of becomes part of you. And you can access it whenever you want.”

That sounds…rather fascinating, actually.

Except, of course, for the fact that it may ruin everything.

“Will you continue to need a potion during full moons?”

“Oh, definitely. There’s only two documented cases of werewolves who could completely maintain their sanity during full moons without the aid of a potion. And even then it took them years to master.”

Draco takes another bite, relieved and feeling strangely guilty about it.

“It’s definitely weird, though,” Potter continues without prompting. “Because I can turn it on and off? I’ve been practicing meditating like the one article Hermione gave me said to. But I’ve also noticed that the wolf part of me tends to—” he gestures with his spoon, brows pulled low over his stupid green eyes, “—come to the front? I guess. When I get emotional. I mean,without me intentionally letting it. Like yesterday, when I got frustrated.”

Draco remembers: Sharp incisors. Small pupils. A distinct _and certainly not compelling_ ferality to his posture.

“But you controlled it, then,” Draco points out. “Once you realised.”

“Yeah. It’s just weird, is all. And I think—”

He pauses suddenly, eyes tipping up to meet Draco’s before very purposely returning to his spoon.

“I think the closer the wolf is to the, uh, front? The more powerful my magic is. I haven’t really had a chance to play with it much yet but I managed a wandless _expecto patronum_ early this morning when I was testing it.”

He shrugs, clearly abashed where nearly everyone else Draco knows would be bragging.

A wandless _expecto patronum._

Honestly.

Draco despairs.

“Yes, well,” Draco says, “you’ve always been a freak.”

Potter laughs and it sounds grateful.

***

They collect Draco’s paltry amount of personal effects from the trailer after they’ve finished eating and he’s had the chance to freshen up.

He still has to wear Potter’s clothes, which are laughably big on him because Potter, the heathen, knows no tailoring spells and Draco isn’t at all interested in letting Potter’s first attempt be on Draco’s inseam.

He sits in the passenger seat of Potter’s ridiculous car, one hand tipped out the open window, fingers in the wind, and thinks that maybe, if he really is going to stay with Potter for a while, which certainly seems to be the case, that he might tell Pansy where he’d hidden a shrunken trunk of his clothes. Not for any of the fancy robes, or ostentatious pyjamas, but his old off-day Hogwarts clothes for pickup games of quidditch and trips to Hogsmeade. Good quality, but not pretentious. Comfortable.

It might make him feel a little more…himself.

By the time they return to the house, the boot of Potter’s car full of Draco’s meager belongings, Luna, Girl-Weasley, Hermione, Pansy and Blaise are already there. 

“I think I need to lie down,” Draco says.

This is clearly the wrong thing to say because instead of bypassing all the visitors, going up to the loft, and ignoring them for the next several hours, he finds himself on the sofa with multiple diagnostic charms floating around him and Potter making concerned faces and Pansy trying to pretend that she is not making concerned faces.

“Your vitals are shockingly good,” Luna says.

She actually frowns a little, which is perhaps equally shocking.

“You really shouldn’t have improved this much in such a short amount of time.”

Draco considers Potter’s proximity—the warm skin of his forearm a hair’s breadth from Draco’s hand on the edge of the sofa.

He suspects he knows why he’s improved. Or doesn’t _know_ , really. Because it doesn’t make sense. But then, it is Potter, after all.

“Well, regardless,” Luna says, expression clearing. “You’re much improved. Like magic, even!” She says brightly.

“Horrible muggle expression,” Pansy mutters.

“You should probably still refrain from exerting yourself for another day or two, and stay on the potions regimen I’ve outlined. But honestly, compared to yesterday, you really are in excellent condition.”

“Still dying?” he asks, mostly as a joke but—

“Ah,” she says, “Yes, I’m afraid so. Not nearly as quickly, though, as you were before.”

“Excellent.”

Weasley appears in the kitchen with a crack, Auror robe over one arm, looking nearly as disheveled as Potter, a chocolate biscuit clutched in his hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says around another biscuit in his mouth. “Blaise’s mum wanted to chat and you can’t really say ‘no’ to that woman.”

Draco blinks at him. “You came from Zabini Manor?”

“I’m stationed in the neighbourhood right now. It’s a lot more convenient than going all the way back to the Portkey Office.”

“Ronald,” Hermione says pointedly.

“Ah,” he extends the biscuit in his hand, “got this for you.”

“You,” Hermione says, batting away his hand, “an Auror. An enforcer of magical law. Took an illegal portkey to get here.”

Ron helps himself to the spurned biscuit.

“It’s not illegal. She had paperwork—showed it to me and everything.”

“ _Legitimate_ paperwork?”

Blaise mimes offense, fingers splayed beneath his throat.

Ron wipes his mouth on his forearm, shrugging. “I don’t work in forgery.”

Hermione sighs.

“About the potions regimen,” Pansy says.

Draco tries to wave away a particularly prickly spell checking his temperature via his left ear. “Yes, yes. I’ll take them dutifully. I’ll even make them myself—like I had been doing—once I’ve recovered. Though I’ll want to talk about the various ingredients you’re suggesting. I certainly feel better, but  there can’t possibly be a reason the purple-coloured one has anise in it aside from making it taste like utter—“

“Actually,” Pansy interrupts, “we think you should stop taking the potions.”

Luna’s spells fizzle out.

Potter makes a very, very small noise in the back of his throat that might, possibly, be a growl.

“Dire as my prospects may be,” Draco says, “I don’t _actually_ want to die yet, if not-dying is an option.”

“Why are Slytherins so dramatic,” Hermione mutters, “She _means_ that it might be helpful for you to leave off taking them for twenty-four hours so your symptoms get bad again. So you can document exactly how dire your situation is. We’re putting together a case to bring before the Ministry’s Appellate Court. If we can provide evidence of a Wizarding Rights violation—that you’ve been subjected to cruel, inhumane, or degrading treatment at the hands of ministry officials—then it’s likely we can have your case retried.”

“Oh,” Draco says.

He’s trying very, very, hard not to get his hopes up.

“But—how will you get that evidence? St. Mungo’s won’t accept me as a patient.”

“Which is also illegal, actually,” Hermione sniffs. “They are required to accept any human from a wizarding bloodline, even a permanently or temporarily unmagical human, as a patient.”

“I’ve already included the documentation of that infraction in the file we’re building,” Pansy says.

Hermione nods at her, “So we think you’ll need to visit a muggle hospital as well as an American Wizarding hospital. Just to be certain we’ve covered everything. Of course those are privatised here which will be a bit of a mess when it comes to payment, but—”

“Payment isn’t an issue,” Blaise interjects, reaching out, casually, to try and tame Weasley’s hair. “Theo’s uncle works at the Southern Ute Wizarding Hospital. I made a generous donation to their Hex Ward and they’re happy to see you at any time. You’ll just have to let me know when you want to pop over to Colorado.”

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Well, excellent.”

Ron slaps Blaise’s hand away, flushing.

Draco’s throat feels very tight.

“That’s—”

“Nothing less than what you’d do for me, my good man,” Blaise says congenially. “Now. The question is if you want a few more days reprieve before going cold turkey, or if you’d rather get this over with now.”

“The sooner we have documentation,” Pansy murmurs, “the better.”

“May as well do it immediately, then,” he says. “Can I—don’t you usually need appointments for muggle doctors, though?”

“Not if you go to Accident and Emergency,” Harry says. 

“It will take around twenty-four hours for the potions to leave your system,” Luna says. “So if you don’t take any for the rest of the evening, or tomorrow, you could go Monday morning to the muggle hospital for a full physical examination and then portkey Monday night to see Theo’s uncle. It will be a very long, miserable, day, but as soon as you’re done in Colorado you could go right back on the potions regimen.”

“Goodness,” Draco says drily. “A whole day of misery. I don’t know if I could bear that.”

Girl-Weasley makes a disparaging comment, too low for Draco to hear.

He ignores her.

“And how are we handling the fact that I’ve no identification or insurance or any of the paperwork muggles require for healthcare?” he asks.

“You’ll have paperwork tomorrow,” Blaise says, “And Potter will be with you in case anyone needs a bit of gentle convincing to run the appropriate tests.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Ron says.

“I will?” Potter says.

“Unless you’d rather I take him,” Blaise suggests.

“No,” Potter says. “That’s fine. I’ll take him. I’m sure you have…things to do.”

“Lovely,” Pansy says. “So we’re all agreed. We get this sorted and Draco back on the mend by Tuesday. Finish the paperwork and submit the appeal by the following week?”

“It may require some late nights,” Hermione says, “but yes. I think that’s doable.”

Ron nods sagely.

“Agreed,” Blaise says.

“Yes, and I’ll make some reserve potions as well,” Luna says, patting Draco’s elbow. “Just in case you’re not feeling up to making your own for a week or so after your hospital visits.”

“I still want to talk about the anise,” Draco mutters.

“Or you could trust the professional,” Girl-Weasley says.

“Just curious,” Blaise says politely, “Why are you here again?”

“Oh, I think we know,” Pansy murmurs.

Girl-Weasley flips them two fingers.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Luna says, either pointedly disregarding them or actually not noticing the hostility in the room.“I’m not a professional yet and Draco is quite the potions prodigy.”

She pats Draco’s arm again before standing. “We can go over my notes during dinner if you’d like.”

“Yes, dinner,” Potter says, sounding relieved. “Shall we eat?”

Draco elects to close his eyes and feign exhaustion. He can’t, of course, pretend to sleep through dinner, but the meal isn’t actually that bad.

Well.

It’s either delightfully civil or disturbingly so. Perhaps both.

Pansy and Hermione have apparently become something like friends in the last 48 hours, and spend most of the meal muttering about Ministry infrastructure and historical bloodlines and shady politics. Blaise and Ron and Harry and Girl-Weasley—well, he really ought to call her Ginny, if he’s using the others’ first names—discuss quidditch with companionable bickering.

Draco does look over Luna’s notes, and a few reference books from her course, and finds her potions logical and well thought out, even if they’re written in sparkly ink. And occasionally require anise.

Everyone leaves, before sunset because of the time difference, with a round of awkward handshakes between the Gryffindors and Slytherins and hugs between everyone else. Draco manages to slip a note to Pansy about Potter’s lineage ignorance, with instructions on opening the Manor’s library, should she be able to access the grounds. 

Having performed his Good Deed of the day, he turns on Potter’s television and attempts to navigate The Netflix. The show about the snake man and the epicurean angel is really quite diverting.

“Actually,” Potter says, putting away the last of the dishes, “before we call it a night, I was hoping you could look at a plant I found.”

Despite himself, Draco is intrigued.

“You _found_?”

“Yeah. When I was, uh, a wolf. I went back and looked at the flowers on it again a few days ago. I’m pretty sure it’s wild Black Foxglove.”

Draco pauses the TV.

“That’s a level 4, controlled, magical plant.”

“Yeah.”

“You have to have multiple permits and an authorised grow space to—”

“I know.”

“If a non-magical person encountered one—”

“Yeah, I _know_ , Malfoy. That’s why I want you to come look at it. I put up a _notice me not_ and a repelling ward around the area, but—”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Draco stands, trying to remember what he did with his shoes.

“We should go before we lose the light.”

A few minutes later, Draco is standing outside in front of Potter’s motorbike with his arms crossed.

“No,” he says.

Potter shifts his weight, rocking the machine back and forth between his rather muscular thighs. His trousers look a tad too small.

“Well we can’t get there with a car and it’s over a mile’s walk, which I don’t think you’re up for right now.”

Draco attempts to argue but an ill-timed cough interrupts him.

He directs the cough at Potter. Petulantly.

“If you kill me—”

“Merlin, I’m not going to _kill_ you. I’m putting an awful lot of effort into keeping you _alive,_ remember?”

That is admittedly true.

“Fine,” Draco says. “How does one—”

“Just climb on,” Potter says.

It takes every fiber of his being not to mimic him.

_A wild-growing Black Foxglove_ , he reminds himself.

And submits himself to the indignity of clambering onto the back of the shuddering muggle machine.

“Right. Good. Hold on, now.”

“Hold on to _what_?”

“Me.”

And that’s—

Well.

He sets his hands, cautious, on Potter’s shoulders.

“No—here.”

Potter redirects Draco’s hands to his waist, palms cupped over his fingers, pressing them down firmly against the sun-heated fabric of his checked shirt; against the firm muscle of his flank, just above the band of his blue jeans. Draco’s first two fingers curl, rather without his permission, into Potter’s belt loops.

“Alright,” Potter says. “Ready?”

“Not particularly.”

Potter laughs like he’s joking.

And then they’re moving.

It’s nothing like riding a broom or a carpet or a Thestral or even a bicycle—which Draco tried once and decided was not for him. It’s bumpy and far too fast and _loud_. But Potter admittedly seems to know what he’s doing and the blur of autumn countryside around them is rather aesthetically pleasing.

The flat dirt-tilled fields give way to a rolling forest landscape that wouldn’t be out of place in a painting. The recent cold front has startled the trees into a sudden urgency of autumn colors: yellow poplars, red dogwoods, copper oaks, maroon blackgums and near-purple sweetgums. 

The cool wind sends a chill down Draco’s neck.

Potter takes them off the pocked gravel road and onto a dirt firebreak and then to what could only generously be called a path.

And there it is.

Potter turns off the engine.

“You said—” Draco swallows. “You said you found _a_ plant.”

“Ah. Well, I meant it more in the plural sense.”

Draco considers the half-acre of sunset-dappled, gently-swaying, black-flowered stalks.

“Did you.”

“So. Are these—?”

“Yes.”

He slides off Potter’s terrible muggle machine and approaches the closest plant, nearly waist-high, heavy will bell-shaped ombre blooms that are a deep burgundy at the center and bleed to pitch black by the petal’s end.

He only resists touching it.

He doesn’t understand how this is possible.

How a heavily protected, deadly, magical plant could grow so well, so unmolested, in an otherwise ordinary thicket, around the bases of ordinary muggle trees, interspersed with ordinary bluestem grass and Yaupon Holly, and _Dandelions._  

The fact that this little cache of plants is conveniently located on _Harry Potter’s_ property is—

Well. It can’t be a coincidence. And yet, what else could it be?

Potter certainly didn’t _plant_ them.

He nearly laughs out loud at the thought.

“How’d they get here?” Potter asks and Draco would mock him for it— _dunno, Potter, perhaps I should ask them?_ —except—

“I should very much like to know that myself,” he says. “We’ll need to come back and collect some samples. The soil here shouldn’t be ideal for their root systems and they’re almost entirely in the shade, which doesn’t make any sense at all. I don’t suppose we have time today to come back?”

They both consider the sharp slant of orange light filtering through the equally orange trees.

“No,” Potter agrees. “And tomorrow you’ll be off your potions.”

“And the following day I’ll be at various medical institutions being experimented upon.”

“Well coming back will be something to look forward to, then.” Potter says. “For when all that’s done.”

“Oh yes. Playing with deadly magical plants whilst I, myself, have no magical protections. I can hardly wait.”

He’s not sure he entirely pulls off the lie because Potter just nods agreeably and starts his motorbike again.

Draco gets on with perhaps more elegance than last time and spends a good portion of the journey back to the barns actually, possibly, enjoying himself.

Because Potter is warm against the evening chill and the sunset is admittedly impressive—purples and reds and small, bumpy stings of clouds that look rather like the terraced fields they’re suspended above.

Except it appears that Potter isn’t, actually heading back to the barns.

“Potter,” Draco says, as he leaves the gravel road for another dirt one. “Where are you taking us?”

“Just thought I’d show you the pond.”

“Why on earth would I want to see a pond?”

“It’s nice. I’ve swam in it a few times.”

They round a subtle curve and yes, maybe a hundred metres away, is a pond, cupped by the edge of the forest they’d just vacated. It’s mirrored surface reflects the colours from both the sky and the trees surrounding it.

“We could take a quick swim if you wanted. It’s not that cold yet.”

“I think not.”

“Why not? It’s not like it’s stagnant or anything. It’s fed by a natural spring.”

“I will not submerge myself in water that has likely had a century of cows shitting in it.”

“Well, there’re no cows, _now_. Haven’t been for at least three years. Though I have been considering getting a few. Did you know that it’s actually pretty easy to make your own yoghurt?”

Potter, blessedly, turns the motorbike back towards the barns.

“No,” Draco says.

“I really think it is. The recipe looks simple.”

“Not—I meant no cows. If you get cattle I refuse to live with you.”

“I thought you weren’t going to live with me anyway.”

“I’m not. This is entirely temporary. I’m just saying that whilst I’m on the premises there will not also be a bovine on the premises.”

“Alright,” Potter says, sounding aggrieved. “We’ll table the cow thing.”

“We will not—Potter. Look where you’re going.”

“I am.”

“And yet you’re driving us straight towards that giant puddle.”

“I am, yeah.”

“For what purpose are you—Potter. Potter, don’t you dare.”

He dares.

By the time they actually get back to the barns, Draco is entirely covered in mud—some is even, possibly, in his _mouth_ —and he’s spent the last several minutes caught between screaming and laughing.

“I hate you,” he says, sliding in an untidy, slippery heap, off the back of the parked motorbike. “I hate you _most ardently_.”

He shakes off his hands which only serves to splatter a bit more mud on Potter’s grinning person.

Sludge from Draco’s dripping sleeves quickly replace the displaced grime.

Potter grins with dirty teeth.

“Oh dear,” he says. “ _Ardent_ hate. Whatever shall I do?”

“Is that meant to be my voice? Because I don’t sound like that.”

“You do. Also. You’ve got a bit of dirt,” Potter gestures to his entire face, “—just there.”

“Oh _do_ I? I wonder whose fault that is.”

“You’re right. I take responsibility for my actions. Here, let me fix it.”

Draco isn’t sure what he means but the garden hose, previously coiled in a neat pile beside the barn door is suddenly in Potter’s hands, spewing water.

“Maybe close your eyes,” Potter suggests, and then—

Oh. Draco is going to _kill_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log: 
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and your patience! I'll try to catch up on answering comments soon. I appreciate every single one of them I just have...very little free time. And the free time I do have I tend to spend doing things that don't require my poor, tired, brain. Like hiking and rock climbing and watching hockey and baking sweets. And eating sweets.
> 
> The reason I have little free time and a Tired Brain: I am officially halfway through with my dissertation. Wild. This means I'm actually a bit ahead of schedule (I wasn't supposed to be halfway until the end of November. But I'm not going to slow down my momentum because I want as much time to prep for my oral defense as possible. Unfortunately, this means updates will remain every 2-3 weeks for the foreseeable future. I'll take an academic break over Thanksgiving and Christmas, though, so I'll try to get lots of fic writing in then.
> 
> I hope you're all having a lovely week! I don't know if I'll have time to dress up/go to a Halloween party this year :(. If anyone has neat costume plans, please do share them so I can live vicariously!


	11. Chapter 11

Moonrise finds them in the loft with the hay doors open: cool, autumn air, just a hint of bite to it, encouraging goosebumps on the still-damp patches of their skin. Draco is lying on his back in another one of Harry’s too-big t-shirts, limbs akimbo on the mattress. His head is pointed towards the open doors, one elbow over his eyes. His wet hair is making a dark spot on Harry’s sheets.

Harry is sat in the open door frame, one leg tucked up to his chest, one dangling over the edge outside, a mug of tea propped on his bent knee. There are still a few Whippoorwills calling softly to each other as darkness and quiet, hand-in-hand, blanket the rolling landscape of farmland—the black silhouette of the potions barn backgrounded by an ombre blue that turns to star-spangled ink in the endless expanse of sky above them.

Harry thinks that if he ever goes back to London it will feel far too small.

“What are muggle hospitals like?” Malfoy asks, apropos of nothing.

Harry shrugs, realises he can’t see that, and says, “I wouldn’t know.”

Malfoy rolls onto his belly, shoving hair out of his face, weight on his elbows.

“Why not? Weren’t you raised by muggles?”

“I was, yeah. But I never went to the hospital. I went to the GP a few times to get the jabs I needed for school. But nothing else.”

“Were you never ill? Or injured?”

“Oh, loads of times. But my Aunt and Uncle…” 

He stops. Considers his audience. Starts again.

“Well. I got better, each time. So I suppose I didn’t need to go, anyway.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are wide and silver and a little too knowing in the low light.

“Did you ever break a bone before Hogwarts?” Malfoy asks. “I did. My arm. I stole my cousin’s broom when I was six and crashed directly into the catering tent. It was my—oh, great aunt, I believe?—it was her fifth or sixth wedding. The ceremony had to be delayed because I was the ring bearer and it took half an hour to get my arm sorted. I don’t know why everyone was so vexed, no one was hurt apart from me and I only _slightly_ dented the cake. It still tasted fine.”

Harry chokes on a laugh, imagining it: a tiny, pointy Malfoy on a runaway broom—likely in equally tiny, formal robes.

“So?” Malfoy prompts, and Harry remembers the story started with a question.

“Ah. Yeah. A few times, I think.”

He remembers an assortment of painful nights that turned into surprised mornings. Looking back, there were a few instances where the Dursleys likely would have _had_ to take him to the hospital within a day or two, had his magic not, apparently, decided to intervene, but there was one time in particular—

“When I was nine, I broke my leg, I think.” He kicks the leg in question against the siding of the barn—still warm from a day spent absorbing the sun.

“My uncle was on a business trip and my Aunt had gone over to the neighbour’s to borrow something or other. My cousin always took advantage of those moments and I knew I was in for it if he could find me once she left. So I hid in the attic, only I couldn’t tell when she came back, and it was dark and I couldn’t see to get out again.”

Malfoy blinks at him. It might be encouragement; it might be boredom.

Harry continues: 

“So as I was trying to crawl back out, I accidentally fell between two of the joists and went straight through the kitchen ceiling.”

“I don’t understand,” Malfoy interrupts. “Joists? Did it not have a floor?”

“Oh. No, it wasn’t a finished attic. Just insulated. So the only thing between me and the kitchen was plasterboard.”

“Ah.” He looks like he still, maybe, doesn’t understand.

“So anyway, I came crashing down while my aunt was starting dinner and—yeah, the leg hurt when I landed, but her _face._ And the way she _screamed_. It was completely worth how angry they were over the hole in the ceiling.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond and Harry feels the grin on his face slip awkwardly into a grimace.

“Anyway. I was fine the next day, so. I guess my magic took care of things if it _was_ broken.”

“You were nine,” Malfoy says. “And your Aunt was more concerned about the kitchen ceiling than your broken leg?”

“I mean. It was a pretty big hole. And I ruined dinner on the stove. What with the plaster everywhere.”

“That’s not—”

Malfoy’s eyes have gone narrow and Harry is suddenly regretting the whole conversation. He turns his attention back to his tea that’s gone cold. He nudges it warmer until hot steam curls up from the surface like a beckoning finger. He breathes it in, but doesn’t drink.

“Why were you hiding from your cousin?” Malfoy asks.

“Ah,” a safer topic. “He didn’t like me much,” Harry says. “You two would have probably got on.”

Malfoy goes silent again and when Harry glances up he looks pale.

Well. _Paler._

“Did your cousin hurt you?” Malfoy asks.

“I mean. Nothing terrible. I was just small and weird and an easy target. You know how kids are.”

“I,” Malfoy says. He wets his lips. “I’d like to apologise. For anything I ever did that hurt you. I know I was a bit of a bully at times and there were certainly some aspects of my character that were due to a flawed upbringing and _hardly_ my fault but I do regret—well. I have regrets. So. My apologies.”

There’s an urgency in Malfoy’s tone under the stilted formality that Harry doesn’t understand.

He considers the sharp ball of Malfoy’s right shoulder, bone pressed tight to white skin, where the stretched collar of Harry’s shirt has fallen to mid-bicep. He thinks about the faded scars on Malfoy’s chest that he’d seen only for a brief moment as they pulled off their wet clothes outside.  

“I have regrets too,” Harry says, setting aside his mug. “And I’m—you were a right tosser at times but. I’m sorry. For the—” he gestures towards Malfoy’s chest. “I didn’t know what it would do.”

Malfoy looks blank.

“What?”

“In the bathroom. The spell I used. I didn’t know it would do that.”

“You used—how could you _not know_?”

“It was written in the margin of my potions book. It just said ‘for enemies’ and you were about to _crucio_ me, so you fit the bill—”

“Because you’d just barged into the bathroom where I was _crying_ and decided to be an utter _arsehole_ to me!”

“And I feel bad about that _now_ —wait. Why _were_ you crying in the bathroom?”

He asks before he has the sense not to, but Malfoy just curls his lip and waves a hand.

“Oh, take your pick, Potter. The Dark Lord was living in my home along with an assortment of werewolves that took up tormenting me for sport. And my mother’s survival—it was clearly explained to me— depended upon my killing the headmaster of my school, which I’d been completely unable to do. Not for lack of opportunity, but because I didn’t _want_ to kill him. But I also—my _mother_ was—well. The point is, I was having a rather bad day. Week. Year, really.”

Oh.

Neither of them seem to know what to say after that, but they seem equally unable to look away from each other.

“I’m starting to think I made some incorrect assumptions about you,” Harry says finally.

Malfoy exhales.

“It’s possible I did the same.”

He says it soft. Maybe a little contrite.

“We both had rather shit childhoods, didn’t we?”

It startles a laugh out of Harry.

“I dunno,” Harry says. “Sounds like yours wasn’t bad at first. Broom theft and still getting to eat cake afterward? Only cake I ever had was what I snuck from the bin at night. You know my first ever birthday cake was from Hagrid when I turned eleven?”

“Jesus, Potter,” Malfoy mutters. “Alright, you win.”

Harry laughs, standing, and closes the hay doors, chafing his hands over his bare arms. He summons two Weasley jumpers and tosses the slightly less-garish one to Malfoy.

“What are some things you wish you’d done?” Harry asks, pulling the knobbly fabric over his head. “I mean. Are there things you feel like you missed out on?”

“What with my family pledging their allegiance to a storybook villain and my teenage years being lost to tyrannical madness?”

“Yeah, that.”

Malfoy sits up, strangely non-combative about donning a chunky, clearly hand-made, jumper with a giant H on it.

“All sorts,” he says, absently flopping the too-long cuffs of the jumper back and forth over his fingers. “I couldn’t ever have friends visit during the holidays because there were always Death Eaters around having meetings. I wasn’t allowed to befriend half-bloods or muggle-borns. Didn’t have half the time I would have liked to work on coursework—not that I’m a swot or anything.”

Harry stifles a laugh at the hasty correction. “Course not.”

Malfoy looks at him suspiciously, but continues: “I didn’t have the time or energy for the Slytherin common room parties or getting into trouble—well, normal trouble, like sneaking out to skinny dip in the lake or playing games of _never have I ever_ with smuggled firewhisky. No dating. No awkward fumblings in the astronomy tower or trips to Hogsmeade with a…paramour.” He shrugs, maybe a little pink. “All sorts,” he repeats. “You?”

“I’d’ve liked to have a pet, I think. Birthday parties. Sleepovers. Maybe played some school sports. I went to the zoo once. I wish I could have gone to more places like that. Aquariums. Museums. And at Hogwarts...same as you, I suspect. With the parties and things. And I wish there was a way I could have spent my summer holidays at Hogwarts, as well. So I didn’t ever have to go back to my Aunt and Uncle’s.”

It occurs to him that he’s talking to Malfoy. That maybe he shouldn’t be sharing quite so much, except Malfoy has rolled back onto his belly again, his chin braced on one hand that is still completely ensconced in a knobbly grey sleeve, looking up at Harry attentively.

“Strange they don’t have some sort of concession for that—especially for muggle-borns,” Draco says. “Seems like an oversight.”

He doesn’t say it with malice or judgement, just honest curiosity. “I wonder why they don’t.”

“Hermione probably knows.”

“Probably,” he allows, the last syllable swallowed up in a yawn.

It’s early still, barely eight, but Harry is tired and he knows that Malfoy is likely exhausted as well after the last 24 hours. Especially since he hasn’t taken any of his evening potions.

Harry should go downstairs.

He should make himself a bed on the sofa and tidy up the kitchen and maybe watch some TV before going to sleep.

But something anxious and pacing in his chest doesn’t want to leave Draco alone. Not while he’s weak and vulnerable and _wearing Harry’s clothes._

Harry sighs and starts undressing.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Draco says, and then, a moment later, “Oh no. Don’t you _dare_. These sheets are _clean_ and I’ll not have dog hair all over my—oh, honestly.”

Draco stops talking about the same time that Harry realises he’s shoved his nose into Draco’s neck. He isn’t sure why, exactly, he’s shoved his nose into Draco’s neck, except that Draco smells rather good there—right in the soft space between throat and jaw and, as a wolf, he is strangely unbothered about violating Draco’s personal space.

He pulls back, remembering that Draco likely has a history of traumatic experiences involving wolves violating his personal space, but Draco’s heart rate is perfectly fine and he _is_ muttering threats under his breath but he’s also shoving up his sleeves so he can scratch Harry’s ears.

So that’s fine, then.

Harry bullies him under the covers and then tucks himself against Draco’s side, chin on his ribs, feeling very pleased with himself.

“This isn’t going to become a _thing_ ,” Draco murmurs, doing something with his fingers that neither of them will ever admit is petting. “I just want you to be aware of that.”

***

Blaise drops off a giant padded envelope full of papers the following morning with a suspicious grin and equally suspicious haste.

“Can’t stay, sorry,” he says. “Draco, love the fashion statement you’re making; very daring. Harry, you’re looking.…about the same as usual. Good show. Take care of our boy and don’t forget to check in tonight. Cheers.”

He apparates away with more flourish than Harry thinks is necessary.

Harry picks up the envelope much like he used to pick up textbooks chosen by Hagrid.

“I very much doubt it will actually bite you,” Malfoy murmurs from the sofa.

He’s toying listlessly with an omelette.

He looks terrible, but not quite as terrible as Harry expected.

“I should definitely be concerned, though, right?” Harry says. “Because that felt like it warranted concern.”

“I’m glad you’re not entirely stupid.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“Perhaps I spoke too soon.”

Harry rolls his eyes and retrieves several stacks of paper-clipped documents from the envelope.

He flips through the first stack and sighs.

He really shouldn’t be surprised, all things considered.

“Well?” Malfoy says.

“Well,” Harry says, holding up an Alabama driver’s license. “Apparently my name is now Harold Pooter.”

Malfoy chokes on a laugh. Or maybe a bit of tomato.

“Good, strong, surname,” he says after a moment of wheezing. “It suits you.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it,” Harry says, paging through the next set of documents. “Because it’s your last name, too.”

Malfoy drops his fork. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mm. Drake Pooter. Apparently we’re married. A year ago today, even. Happy anniversary, dear.”

“ _Give me that_.”

Harry hands over the paperwork as requested, watching as Malfoy’s facial expressions progress through all five stages of grief in the span of thirty seconds.

He picks up his fork again and holds it in a curled fist. “I’m going to kill him.”

“It’s not that bad,” Harry says, reaching to retrieve the documents. “It’s just for a day.”

Malfoy slaps away Harry’s extended hand.

“But—this is hardly fair.” He jabs the fork towards one page, “Did you see our occupations? Why do you get to be some reclusive tech prodigy and I’m just your—”

“Boy toy?”

Malfoy splutters. “I was going to say ‘kept man’ or ‘trophy husband’ but you’ve managed to make this even more horrifying, thank you.”

“No problem.”

Malfoy continues on to the next stack of papers.

“It makes sense,” Harry says, actually feeling a little bad despite the fact that it’s Blaise’s fault Malfoy will be playing the role of his poor, sickly, husband. “It covers all our bases: Home schooled by cult-ish anti-vaccination types, a teenage runaway with no access to his meagre health records, married young to the kind but eccentric millionaire who took him in and helped him adapt to the real world.”

“An eccentric millionaire now saddled with a spouse whose increasingly troubling symptoms have driven them to seek medical attention with said millionaire’s excellent insurance coverage. Sounds like you’re being taken advantage of, Mr Pooter.”

“I’m sure I find your charming company worth the hassle,” Harry says lightly.

It’s Malfoy’s turn to roll his eyes.

“We may as well get this over with,” he says, discarding both plate and fork to the coffee table. “Are you ready to go?”

Harry summons one of the few button-down shirts he owns and tucks it into his belted jeans, “You’re going like that?”

Malfoy is wearing a pair of his own khaki trousers, however, his torso is still dwarfed by the Weasley jumper Harry gave him to sleep in the night before. It’s grey, but the kind of thick, knobbly, yarn that has flecks of a dozen other colours in it—mostly earthy greens and blues. The H on his chest is emerald. It looks good on him.

“From what I understand, they’re going to make me wear an awful gown for most of the day anyway.”

“Fair.” Harry agrees. He collects his hair into a small half-pulled-through-ponytail. He tucks his hands in his pockets and hopes he looks like a tech prodigy.

“I suppose we’re ready then,” he says.

Malfoy sighs.

Harry apparates them first to Birmingham and then to Atlanta where, according to the directions Blaise has left them, they take an Uber to Emory University Hospital and then, bypassing the Emergency Room entrance, follow precise instructions to what appears to be a specialist clinic’s waiting room.

Harry thinks Blaise has probably made another donation, or otherwise bribed the staff, because the receptionist at the little sliding window confirms that Mr Pooter has an appointment with Dr Sandra Kole and within minutes they’ve been ushered back into an exam room where a nurse takes Malfoy’s vitals. Malfoy looks slightly panicked through the process and goes monosyllabic, so Harry finds the burden of conversation and initial patient history is left to him. 

Luckily, he remembers the basics well enough and the nurse seems to have no issue buying their story since pureblood wizard reactions to innocuous items like tongue depressors and reflex testers are apparently very similar to cult-raised, unfamiliar with modern medicine, muggle reactions to the same items. 

When the nurse tries to take Malfoy’s blood pressure he reaches frantically for Harry’s hand and Harry ends up half on the examination table, one arm around Malfoy’s shoulders, assuring him that it won’t hurt. He spends the rest of the initial exam speaking lowly in Malfoy’s ear, telling him what to expect and assuring him that nothing will harm him. The nurse coos over how sweet they are, gives Malfoy a sympathetic pat that he would probably resent if he was in his right mind, and leaves him a gown to change into while they wait for the doctor.

Harry resolutely stares out the window while Malfoy changes, strangely without complaint, and then immediately sits back down, pressed tightly to Harry’s side. Harry would make fun of him except he’s kept the Weasley jumper’s sleeves over his arms, the body of the jumper pooled in his lap; he looks very young and very frightened.

He closes his eyes and leans into Harry and for several minutes neither of them says anything.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks as the silence is starting to drive him mad.

“The Netflix,” Malfoy says tightly.

“The Netflix,” Harry repeats. He’s tried to explain to Malfoy that it’s just _Netflix,_ but so far it hasn’t stuck.

“Why are you thinking about Netflix?”

“Because when we’re through with this terrible day, we are going to watch the Omens show and see if the Hufflepuff angel and the Slytherin demon manage to thwart the apocalypse.”

“That’s not Netflix. That’s Amazon Prime.”

“So?”

“So it’s not Netflix.”

Malfoy opens one eye and flaps a sleeve at him. “It’s close enough.”

“It’s _not_. It’s like American muggles calling all fizzy drinks ‘Coke.’ It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense is how riled up you’re getting over this. Though I suppose the full moon _is_ coming up soon.”

“No. That’s not fair. You can’t use my—my _medical condition_ to try and—”

“Really? Lycanthropy is a medical condition, now? Shall we ask the good doctor when she arrives what the recommended course of treatment is for your ailment?”

“Well obviously not at a _muggle_ hospital, but I’m pretty sure—”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” a woman in white coat says, slipping into the room.

Any liveliness that Malfoy had summoned in their brief debate abruptly vanishes.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Hi. Good morning.”

“Mr and Mr Pooter?” she says with a flawless straight-faced cavalierity that speaks of years of professionalism in the face of ridiculous surnames. “I’m Doctor Kole. I’m given to understand that your circumstances are rather unique.”

She considers Malfoy over the top of her glasses and she looks—well, she nearly looks angry.

“Judging from your vitals and intake information I’m surprised you didn’t seek medical attention sooner.”

Harry waits for Malfoy to respond but it seems he’s gone nonverbal.

“Right,” Harry says. “Unfortunately my, uh, husband’s family didn’t believe in modern medicine so he’s never been to a doctor before and is… rather skittish about the idea. Bit of brainwashing, see. About the dangers of hospitals and antibiotics and the like. Which is the only reason it’s taken me so long to bring him in. I didn’t want to force him but I also—”

Malfoy takes this opportunity to cough and it rattles terribly in his chest.

Harry chafes one hand at the top of his bare arm until the fit subsides and Malfoy sags against him.

“I’m also very concerned,” Harry finishes. It isn’t even a lie.

Dr Kole’s expression softens a degree.

She rests a cautious hand on Malfoy’s knee.

“I understand this is probably scary for you, so I’ll try to explain all of the tests we do beforehand and you can feel free to ask for clarification at any time, alright?”

Malfoy nods.

“Alright,” she says, nudging her glasses up her nose. “Let’s start with some questions.”

Dr Kole has a soft, kind, voice and a reassuring presence. She has dry humour and a quick wit, and by the time she’s gone over Malfoy’s full history, Malfoy is actually using sentences again and isn’t clutching Harry’s arm quite so tightly.

“Alright, nearly finished,” she says, the front page of Malfoy’s chart pinched between two fingers, “it says here no smoking or alcohol…And you’re not currently working, correct?” 

“No,” Malfoy says, looking embarrassed.

“He’s been too ill to work, recently,” Harry says. “And he doesn’t need to anyway because I—uh. But he _does_ work in the garden. He’s really good with plants and—” Harry just stops himself from saying ‘potions.’ “Er. Natural remedies. He’s not just some…kept man.”

“I prefer ‘trophy husband,’ dearest. You know that,” Malfoy says sweetly.

Harry has no idea why he felt the need to defend such a prat.

“Of course, love.”

Malfoy’s smile nearly turns into a grimace.

“Alright.” Dr Kole sets aside Malfoy’s chart and gestures with her stethoscope. 

“I’d like to listen to your heart and lungs now.” She taps the bell end of the stethoscope. “This might be a little cold, but it won’t hurt at all, okay?”

“Alright,” Malfoy says.

“Your husband needs to step to the side, but he can continue holding your hand, if you’d like.”

Malfoy swallows. “I suppose he ought to. He’s less trouble if he thinks he’s being useful.”

“I understand,” Dr Kole says gravely.

Harry stands slowly, giving Malfoy time to release his arm. To slide his chilled, clammy palm down Harry’s wrist. To twist their fingers together.

His expression dares Harry to ever bring this moment up again once they leave the hospital.

Harry gently—so gently, because Draco’s bones feel like they might break under the slightest pressure—squeezes his hand.

“Needy, this one,” Draco mutters, ears pink despite his general lack of blood. 

“Mmm,” Dr Kole agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> :D
> 
> I just finished the first draft of the second-to-last chapter of my dissertation(!!!). Which means I'm ahead of schedule and feeling Very Good about it. I also, however, have caught a touch of the plague, so I shall deliver this update to you with minimal commentary and retreat to my nest of blankets. If anyone has hurt/comfort and/or sickfic recs for me, please do share them!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. Y'all are awesome.


	12. Chapter 12

It becomes uncomfortably easy to reach for Potter.

Perhaps because it’s expected for their deception, perhaps because every brush of skin-to-skin contact provokes a subtle relief from an assortment of aches, Draco finds himself near-constantly touching Potter: his hand or his shoulder or most of Potter’s body on one occasion memorable only for its awfulness, when they’d finally withdrawn Draco from the CT scan machine and he’d more or less crawled into the safety of Potter’s arms and refused to leave for several minutes.

He would be embarrassed, except the nurses found it endearing and if Potter is ever stupid enough to bring it up, Draco can dismiss it as an act to further their cause and _honestly_ there is no reason that a machine used for _healing_ purposes should be so terrifyingly enclosed. And loud. He can hardly be blamed for his reaction.

Regardless, several hours into testing finds them back in the exam room: Draco reclined on the table with his head in Potter’s lap and Potter’s fingers in his hair.

He isn’t sure when that happened, actually.

He recalls nearly passing out when they took what seemed like an unnecessary amount of blood from his arm—with a _needle_. He recalls returning to the exam room with a plastic cup of juice. Curling up under a blanket produced by one of the cooing nurses. Potter trying to feed him a truly heinous excuse for a biscuit.

And now they’re here:

Head in lap.

Fingers in hair.

It’s nice, is the thing.

Pansy used to play with his hair back at Hogwarts in the Slytherin common room. The best window seat was reserved for them and they would preside over their domain in the evenings, Draco smirking, a book open on his chest, Pansy with sharp eyes and an even sharper smile.

Sometimes, on much rarer occasions, when there was no one there to witness it, Blaise would slip between the drapes of Draco’s bed at night, bully him into a similar position, and then Blaise would—for lack of a better word— _pet_ him for a few minutes before calling him a spoiled crup and leaving again. There was a six month period during fifth year where Draco had a very inadvisable crush on Blaise which made those rare moments fraught with teenage heartache.

It was worth the embarrassing pining, though, because Draco loves it—has always loved it: the scratch of fingernails against his scalp; the soft drag of a brush; the gentle tug of plaiting.

It’s stupid and vain, but one of the things he dislikes most about being so ill is the state of his hair. It used to be beautiful. Soft. Sleek. _Like spun silk_ , his mother used to say. _Like silver Merino thread_. _Your poor wife one day will be terribly jealous._

Admittedly, his mother stopped with the wife comments shortly after his fourteenth birthday. He’d thought, at the time, that he was keeping his proclivities secret; but in retrospect, perhaps the space between box spring and mattress was not the most discreet location for hiding a charity calendar of mostly-nude male quidditch players. Particularly when Draco himself was not the one changing the sheets and the house elves were far more loyal to his mother than him.

Oh well. Not that it matters, now.

Regardless, even if his hair is embarrassingly brittle and thin, Potter doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s been so long since anyone has touched him like this: kindly— _softly_ —that Draco leans into it rather than away.

Potter has played the part of besotted husband disconcertingly well, Draco thinks. Though perhaps the disconcerting thing is that he has no idea how much of Potter’s quiet reassurances are genuine, and how much are contrived.

Even the doctor had apparently been suspicious of Potter’s dotage and asked to speak with Draco alone an hour before.

Potter hadn’t wanted to leave but Draco was between panic attacks—he’d just returned from an only slightly terrifying x-ray of his back—and he coaxed Potter out the door with a cavalier, “It’s fine, darling. Why don’t you go get us some lunch? She’s said I could eat after they do the blood bit.”

“Are you sure?” Potter asked.

“Positive. Off you go, Harold dear.”

Draco had assumed the doctor wanted to ask about his intimate escapades and whether or not Potter was, indeed, his only sexual partner.

Instead, she took off her glasses and crossed her arms and asked if he felt _safe_. And it took several prolonged seconds of confusion for him to realize that she thought Potter— _Potter_ —might be hurting him. Or taking advantage of him. Or—well. All manner of unfathomable things.

Apparently his disbelief was honest enough that she didn’t press much further past his initial, fumbled, denials, that no, Harry—Harold—was not mistreating him and was, in fact, terribly kind and patient and self-sacrificing.

It probably says something about Draco that he was anticipating judgement, or implications of infidelity, rather than concern. But he didn’t get a chance to dwell on that because he was whisked away for more testing and then they took his blood _with a needle_ , and now they’re here.

“Are you ready for some lunch?” Potter asks. “I’ve got a stasis spell on it so it should still be warm.”

“Not if it’s anything like that biscuit,” Draco murmurs. 

“The biscuit was from the nurse. Lunch is from a French bistro down the street. Can’t guarantee it’s up to your standards, but it smells good.”

“I suppose it’s worth trying.”

Several minutes later, he’s lounging against Potter’s side, holding the blanket closed around his shoulders while Potter feeds him bites of niçoise and warm brie on toasted baguette slices. He doesn’t really need the blanket anymore because Potter throws heat like a furnace, but he’s revelling in the pure opulence of being hand-fed by the Boy-Who-Lived, and if he’s going to die soon he’s allowed to indulge, isn’t he?

Dr Kole smiles rather fondly at them when she returns.

“Alright,” she says, “we’ve tortured you enough for today. I’ll send you home with some prescriptions for breathing treatments and an inhaler—just speak to the front desk about your preferred pharmacy. And make your follow-up appointment. Do you have any questions for me before you go?”

Potter glances down at him.

Draco swallows.

“I—do you not have a diagnosis for me? Or a—” he tries to remember the correct terminology, “treatment plan?”

“Oh,” Dr Kole says. “No. I’m afraid it will take at least a week to compile all your tests, look over bloodwork and scans. We’ll discuss all that at the next appointment. It’s likely you’ll need to make appointments with specialists once we have those results, though.”

Muggle healthcare really is a disaster, Draco thinks.

“Oh,” he says.

“But I’ll see you again in a week and we’ll make a plan then once we have a better understanding of what’s going on with you. Okay?”

It appears agreeing is the only option.

He lets Potter tuck the prescription papers into his pocket and make the follow-up appointment and generally just take care of things, because Draco is exhausted and miserable and he clearly needed that blood they took from him (with a _needle_ ) because he still feels dizzy. But Potter takes responsibility without complaint and charms the various nurses at the front desk, holding Draco against his side with a warm, casual, hand.

Once they reach the reception, Potter tosses a wandless Notice-Me-Not around them and withdraws a folded envelope from his coat pocket, shaking out an old quill—their portkey to the wizarding hospital in Colorado— into his hand.

“We missed the first activation time, but the second one will be in another fifteen minutes. You want to finish lunch while we wait?”

Draco supposes he could stomach a bit more brie.

Sixteen minutes later, Draco wishes he hadn’t elected to finish lunch when they arrive with a terrible lurch in the reception of the Southern Ute Wizarding Hospital.

“You alright?” Potter asks, keeping him upright.

Stupid question.

Draco takes several slow breaths through his teeth and waits for the nausea to pass.

Potter rubs his back.

“ _Harry Potter_?” someone says—shouts, really—and Draco looks up, startled, because Potter had very carefully glamoured himself to be unrecognizable moments before.

He’s not glamoured anymore, though.

It’s just his normal face: two days of scruff on his jaw and his hair half-pulled-up, green eyes and distinctive scar on display.

_What the fuck_ , Draco thinks.

“What the fuck,” Potter says,

He meets Draco’s eyes. “Am I—”

“Not glamoured,” Draco manages, teeth still gritted.

“Oh no,” Potter says, “this is not good.” And it’s so—it’s such an understatement that Draco forgets he’s nauseous and laughs.

“It _is_ Harry Potter!” Someone else shouts, and suddenly they’re surrounded by people.

“Uh,” Potter says, and his face slips into a blank, placid, expression—an expression Draco has seen many times staring with confident passivity from beneath newspaper headlines.

“Yes, hello,” Potter says. One of his hands is still on Draco’s lower back and he moves them forward, his wand, quite suddenly, in his free hand. “I’m just escorting a friend to his appointment, if you can excuse us, please.”

“Oh cool, Harry Potter!” A child says. “Can I get your autograph?”

“Don’t bother Mr. Potter,” the child’s mother says, “…unless, of course, he has a moment?”

“Are you living in the US, now?” One woman asks, stumbling to keep up with them. “Have you been _here_ the whole time? Can I take your picture?”

“Let us through, please,” Potter says.

“Who’s your friend?” a teenager with headphones around his neck asks, nearly colliding with Draco as Harry doggedly moves them forward.

“Wait,” someone else says, “isn’t that the _Death Eater_ kid?”

“Can’t be. Why’d Harry Potter be here with _him_?”

“It _looks_ like him.”

“Shouldn’t he be dead by now?”

Draco’s lungs are not very pleased with the quick pace Potter has set but he’s equally uninterested in letting the growing crowd converge upon them.

“Excuse me,” Potter yells, “Can we get a little help, here?”

The gaurd at the security desk startles, remembers her job, and throws a repelling charm around them, instructing people to please stand back.

“Potter,” Draco says as they come to a stop. He blinks against the spots at the edge of his vision.

Potter is saying something about an appointment and the security witch is offering to escort them the private diagnostic ward but Draco isn’t sure he can move at the moment. He blinks again. His head feels detached and floaty.

“Potter,” he says again. “ _Harry_.”

That does it.

“What?” Potter says, and then, finally, with the appropriate amount of urgency: “Oh shit. Are you—”

Draco is pretty sure Potter catches him as he passes out.

*****

Draco wakes up with his head in Potter’s lap again.

Unfortunately he also wakes up with a perfect and immediate memory of the moments that predeceased his lapse in consciousness.

“Kill me,” Draco says.

Potter laughs on an exhale. “That’s what we’re actively working against, remember?”

Draco closes his eyes. As if that might make the situation a little less horrifyingly real.

“What do you think the odds are that none of those people had mobile phones and our entire visit has, thus far, gone undocumented?

“Slim to none,” Potter says. “Pretty sure all of the teenagers downstairs caught your swoon on video.”

“Kill me,” Draco repeats.

Except it occurs to him—

This is an embarrassment for him. Continued evidence of his downfall.

But it’s also, more importantly, exactly the kind of publicity Potter has been avoiding. The kind of situation he was trying to escape when he left London for rural America.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says. “Fuck. This is a nightmare. You managed to completely evade public attention for months and now I’ve—now there are going to pictures of you everywhere—pictures of you associating with _me._ And questions. Speculation.You shouldn’t even be here. Blaise should have taken me.”

Potter’s fingers tighten, briefly, in his hair.

“It’s fine. No one knows where we live. No one is going to follow us home. It’s not the end of the world. We’ll call Hermione and Pansy and they’ll handle things, okay? We don’t have to worry about any of that. We just have to worry about you.”

Potter’s thumb smooths over one of his eyebrows.

Draco exhales.

“Alright.”

Someone clears their throat and they both jump; Potter’s hands leave his face; Draco opens his eyes.

“Gentlemen,” a man in green robes says.

They’re in a suite that looks nearly identical to the private rooms at St. Mungo’s. The healer just inside the door is looking at them with a very, _very_ carefully blank expression.

“If he hasn’t signed a charmed confidentiality agreement, make him do it now,” Draco says.

He may be ill and all but useless, but he’s not an idiot.

“I signed a binding agreement with Mr. Zabini yesterday,” the healer says. “Please be assured that your privacy, whether health related or…” his attention lingers on Potter for a moment, “interpersonal, will be well-respected.”

“I’d like to see a copy of that agreement,” Draco says.

“It’s fine,” Potter interrupts, and then, more quietly to Draco:

“He’s telling the truth. And the longer we’re here, the more we risk someone from the press finding us. I imagine Rita Skeeter is on her way as we speak.”

Draco shudders at the thought.

More importantly, though: “How do you know he’s being truthful?”

Potter glances at the healer, then back down at Draco. He worries his bottom lip against a line of perfect, white teeth. From that angle—looking up at him—Potter’s jaw is particularly sharp; his mouth particularly full.

“Later,” Potter says. “Just trust me?”

And Draco does, he realizes.

Wholly and without reservation.

It is an uncomfortable thing to acknowledge.

“Alright,” he says. He’s still looking at the corded slope of Potter’s throat.

He isn’t sure why it’s distracting.

But it’s distracting.

“Shall we begin?” The healer asks. He appears amused by them, or at least amused by Draco, and Draco considers being insulted but finds he doesn’t have the energy.

“Yes, alright,” he allows.

“I’m Healer Alexander Nott. All testing will be conducted in this room and security is posted outside to ensure your privacy. Before we begin, are you planning to portkey out when you leave, or will you need access to an apparition point?”

“We can’t just apparate from here?” Potter asks.

Obviously not, Draco thinks, if they have designated apparition points.

He rolls his eyes at Potter, but Potter, focused on the healer, completely misses his distain. A shame.

“No,” Nott says. “We have wards up around most of the hospital that disallow apparition.” He raises an eyebrow. “There are also wards that nullify glamours and appearance-changing potions. I’m assuming you weren’t aware of that.”

“Yeah, no,” Potter says, maybe a little sheepish. “Smart, though. I’m assuming it’s for when criminals come in for treatment? So you can apprehend them immediately?”

“Indeed. It’s a complex bit of spell-work only instituted earlier this year and already a great success. I apologize, I assumed Mr. Zabini would be escorting Mr. Malfoy, neither of whom are well-known enough here in the States to draw attention. If I’d know you were coming, Mr. Potter, we could have made different arrangements for your arrival.”

Draco can tell that Healer Nott is desperately curious and trying very hard not to appear desperately curious.

“Oh well,” Potter says. “But yes, we’ll need to apparate.”

Nott waits a beat and then, when clearly no more information is forthcoming, he withdraws his wand and moves forward. “Alright. Mr. Potter, I’ll need you to vacate the examination table so I can begin.”

Except as Potter moves Draco’s head from his thigh to the table’s surface, as he slides to his feet and steps away, Draco automatically reaches for his hand.

Not because he _wants_ to hold it. And certainly not because he’s _frightened_. He’s just muddled, is all. From the assortment of yet undiagnosed ailments he has and the ridiculous amount of blood the muggle doctors took from him ( _with a needle_ ) and the fact that he was very recently unconscious and spent most of the day playing the part of sick husband. Reaching for Potter has become routine. He can hardly be blamed.

Potter also seemingly automatically laces their fingers together, leaning one hip like a habit against the table at his head. A moment later, though, he goes very abruptly still, eyes meeting Draco’s, then jumping to the healer, then back to Draco again.

Draco thinks he’ll let go. Move back.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he says to Healer Nott, “Will I be in the way if I—”

“No,” Nott says. “Not at all. Most of the diagnostic spells I’ll be performing focus on the core of the body, not the extremities. I’ll let you know if you need to step aside entirely.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Draco considers shaking Potter’s hand off anyway. Because they don’t have an excuse for this. Because Nott is clearly drawing laughably incorrect conclusions about their relationship. But if Potter wants to hold his hand he’s not going to stop him. Especially when Potter’s magic, invisible but undeniably present, is bleeding slowly from his scarred knuckles and torn cuticles and the surprisingly soft webbing between his fingers—leeching with a gentle burn of comfort into Draco’s skin. He has a suspicion that their sustained contact might possibly be the only thing keeping him conscious.

So.

Hanging on is nothing more than a self-serving act.

Dragging his thumb over the jut of Potter’s first knuckle is purely medicinal.

It doesn’t mean anything.

***

After hours spent at the muggle hospital being poked and prodded and shoved into terrifying machines, the comparatively quick and non-invasive diagnostic spells feel anticlimactic.

“Well,” Healer Nott says, arms crossed and lips pursed. “Now is when I have to ask if there’s any additional information you’d to share with me about your illnesses and how you’ve been treating them.”

“Sorry?” Draco says.

“If I may be frank,” Nott says.

“Please.”

“Between the state of your bones, your lungs, and your blood, you should be…near death, with your genetics, after over a year without magic. And yet here you are, with full mental faculties and a weak, but functioning, body. The only reason for that I can think of is that you’ve managed, somehow, to still access your magical core. But it’s—” he shakes his head, gesturing vaguely toward Draco’s chest. “It’s still entirely closed off. The binding spells are intact. And your core is badly degraded from disuse. Which leaves me very, very, curious as to how you are comparatively thriving when, to all diagnostic accounts, you are gravely— _fatally_ —ill. I can’t help you if I don’t have a full understanding of the situation.”

Draco anticipated this might happen.

He still hasn’t, however, made up his mind about how he should respond.

“We’ve been making potions,” Potter says.

“We?” Draco mutters.

Potter rolls his eyes.

“Alright. _Draco_ has been making potions. For a couple months. He’s a lot healthier when he’s on them. Or—he’s able to work. Doesn’t pass out, anyway.”

“No potions I’m familiar with would explain this. In a case like Mr. Malfoy’s, potions can mitigate symptoms. They can’t halt, or even, as I suspect has happened, _repair_ permanent damage in the same way that ancestral, personal, magic can.”

“You won’t—”

Draco stops.

Starts again.

“ _I’m_ not doing anything. But I fear you won’t believe me if I tell you my hypothesis.”

Potter frowns down at him.

Draco refuses to find the little perturbed wrinkle between Potter’s eyebrows endearing.

“I’m certainly willing to listen to any hypotheses you have,” Nott says, “considering I have a medical impossibility on my table at present.”

Draco exhales. “Perhaps it would be better to show you. You said you looked at my magical core.”

“I did.”

Nott flicks his wand to dim the lights, then gestures toward Draco’s chest. A dark purple ember—so dark its almost black—is superimposed over the chunky knit of the sweater. Small and contained to a three-inch space between the wings of his ribcage, it flickers weakly.

It’s terrible in a visceral way.

His fingers tighten around Potter’s.

He clears his throat.

“I’m given to understand that, normally, we would see a network of magic coming from that core—like veins—extending throughout my body.”

“Yes,” Nott says. “The containment spell placed on you renders that network inaccessible, however.”

“Right. Well. Perhaps you should look at Potter’s, er. Network. While he’s touching me.”

“I don’t understand,” Potter says.

_You’re about to_ , Draco thinks.

“Mr. Potter,” Nott says. “If I may?”

“Sure.”

Potter’s chest lights up like a beacon.

His core is green—a deep emerald that takes Draco by surprise—it fills up most of Potter’s torso and a massive, intricate, spiderweb of sparking, pulsing, veins extends from it, bright and healthy and—

Ah.

Yes.

Usually, Draco would, at a moment like this, crow about being right.

But pride is overshadowed by—he doesn’t even know. Some combination of sustained disbelief and confusion and maybe, just a little, awe.

Because there: where Potter’s fingers are tucked between his. Where the base of Potter’s hand—so much larger than his—rests against Draco’s wrist, there:

The green web lengthens. _Traverses_.

It’s faint, and becomes fainter still the further Potter’s magic gets from its host. But nearly the entirety of Draco’s arm is painted in pale, reaching green lines that barely, just barely, extend to his chest. And they coalesce there: A very unobtrusive but decidedly _present_ , artificial core.

“What.” Potter says.

“I take it you’re not doing that intentionally?” Nott says.

His eyes are wide. Draco is certainly not the only one experiencing some version of awe.

“No,” Potter says. “I don’t even—What _is_ that?”

“Magical transference,” Nott says, almost absently. “Or something like it.” He leans forward to further inspect the connection.

“But it’s not—it shouldn’t be possible between two wizards. Human wizards, I mean. It’s only been studied in witches and wizards with Veela ancestry. Or more recently with Werewolves. Creature genetics allow the transference of ancestral magic between individuals with similar species heritage. So a half-Veela might be able to share her magic with a quarter-Veela partner. But this—”

He trails off.

“It _looks_ similar, but since you don’t even have a core available for Mr. Potter’s magic to feed into…I can honestly say I have no idea what this is.”

Potter clears his throat.

“What about transference from a creature to a human. Has that ever been documented?”

“No. Why would that even—”

Nott glances up.

The spells abruptly blink out.

“ _No_ ,” Nott says. “You were _bitten_? _Harry Potter_ was bitten. That’s—”

“Confidential information,” Draco grits out.

Honestly, what is Potter _thinking_?

“Right, yeah,” Nott says. “Obviously. Jesus. But you’re—When? How have you been managing it?”

“Shortly before I left London. Draco has been making my potions and I have control of the shift provided I take them. But that’s not important right now.”

“Right,” Nott says again. “ _Right_. So.” He scrubs a hand through is hair. “There haven’t been any studies on transference between Creatures and humans. The assumption is that it wouldn’t be possible because of the subtle differences in magical core structures. But this is all new science anyway. The first Veela study was only conducted six years ago and the werewolf research is still ongoing and I admittedly haven’t been following it all that closely. I’ll have to pull some articles tonight and—”

He renews the spell, bending close over their linked hands.

“Would you be willing to let me consult with a specialist? If I didn’t share your identities?”

Draco meets Potters eyes and sees equal hesitation.

“We’d need to discuss that privately, I think,” Potter says.

“And perhaps update some confidentiality paperwork,” Draco agrees. “Until then—”

“Yes, of course,” Nott murmurs, attention still on their hands. “Can you _feel_ that?”

“I can,” Draco says.

“You _can_?” Potter says. “ _I_ can’t. Why didn’t you say something?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Draco asks, “Ah. Yes, hello, Potter, it seems that whenever you touch me I feel slightly less shit—almost as if your magic is attempting to keep me alive. Despite the fact that there’s no precedent for that at all. Care to hold hands until dinner?”

“Right. Okay. But if it was making you feel better you _should_ have said something. I would have believed you.”

“Only because you’re painfully ignorant about standard magical theory.”

“You think I don’t know that? Hermione is one of my best friends. I’m _really_ well informed on the glaring holes in my Wizarding knowledge, thanks.”

Fair point.

“So,” Nott says.

They fall silent.

“Until I can do further research, I suggest we treat this like documented cases of magical transference. The standard recommendation in situations where an individual’s core is recovering from trauma is to encourage physical contact between the individual and their transference partner in addition to a potion regimen to treat any physical symptoms—which you obviously have in abundance, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter, your core is not currently suffering from sharing magic, but we’ll want to make sure that you don’t accidentally deplete yourself.”

“Right,” Potter says. “So. We should just…keep holding hands as much as possible?”

“The more skin to skin contact the better. And, technically, contact with Mr. Malfoy’s chest would be ideal.”

Draco is glad he’s short on blood because he would undoubtedly be blushing had he any to spare.

“Okay,” Potter says. “Wait. Does it still work if I’m a wolf?”

He turns to address Draco.

“It _does_ , doesn’t it? That’s why you haven’t actually been angry when I sleep with you at night.”

Ah.

Apparently he does have enough blood left to blush.

Draco covers his hot face with his free hand.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Well. That’s easy enough.”

It looks as if Nott would dearly like to comment on that except someone knocks on the door and they all jump at the intrusion.

Nott dismisses the diagnostic spell and turns up the lights before opening the door a crack.

“Sir?” A younger man says. “We’re starting to have security problems.”

“We’re nearly done anyway. Can we get them to the apparition point?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem if we go now.”

“Alright,” Nott glances back at them. “Can we speak more about treatment and further testing via firecall tomorrow? I’d like to do some reading tonight, as I said.”

“That’s fine,” Draco says, suddenly desperate to be home.

Or—back at the Barns.

“Alright. Mr. Potter, if you can assist Mr. Malfoy. It seems you two need to make a rather hasty exit, I’m afraid.”

Potter—well. There’s really no other way to say it— _scoops_ Draco up into a bridal carry and, despite his protests, carries him into the hall.

“This way,” Nott says, and they are suddenly flanked by several more wizards in security robes.

“I hate you,” Draco mutters into Potter’s neck, though it admittedly lacks vehemence.

“You don’t,” Potter says.

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me, just making shit up RE worldbuilding, here. Mostly because "required physical contact" is one of my favorite tropes. Hopefully, it's one of yours too :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I have just started writing the FINAL CHAPTER of my dissertation (currently ahead of schedule!), I've been getting lots of excellent rock climbing in (see Tumblr for some A+ fall pics--I'm xiaq there as well), Deacon is reveling in the cool autumn air, and I've been baking lovely tasty (GF) things for Thanksgiving this morning (there will also be pics of those on Tumblr!). If you celebrate the holiday, happy Thanksgiving! If not, I hope you enjoy a perfectly ordinary Thursday tomorrow. And thank you for all the comments! I'll try to answer them on Thanksgiving since I'll be taking the whole day off from Diss work.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There's a brief moment of homophobia/bigotry (quickly followed by retribution).
> 
> It begins with: “Well shit,” one man says, glancing towards the counter, “looks like Billy’s charity case is back.” 
> 
> It ends with: Harry isn’t entirely sure what happens.

They return to the house past sunset, though that’s really not saying much considering that the sun sets at 5pm, now.

As much as Harry is usually willing to defend muggle customs, daylight savings is certainly not one of the customs worth defending.

Harry helps Malfoy to the sofa, drops off hospital forms on the kitchen counter and retrieves the potions Luna had stored in the fridge.

Malfoy takes them, making a variety of disgusted noises accompanied by disgusted faces, and then demands Harry turn on the Netflix so they can watch the Omens show. Harry doesn’t renew the debate about Netflix vs. Hulu vs. Amazon Prime Video because he can’t determine whether or not Malfoy is intentionally baiting him at this point; if he is, Harry isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an argument; if he isn’t, Harry isn’t the kind of arsehole to berate someone who’s had a traumatic day.

Harry puts on the Omens show.

He brings two rewarmed bowls of soup and the last of the bread from the bistro to the coffee table a few minutes later and sits, more than a little awkward, next to Malfoy.

He’s curled into one corner, chin braced on hand, elbow braced on the arm of the sofa. He’s still wearing Harry’s Weasley sweater: rumpled and pale, thin wrist looking thinner against the thick cuff of the jumper. 

“Soup?” Harry asks.

Malfoy blinks at him.

“Mmm? No. I’m—fine.”

He blinks again, looking a little lost.

“I think perhaps I shouldn’t have taken those potions all together.”

Harry straightens. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, just. It’s—temporary euphoria. Happens if you don’t space potions out in a…” he blinks again, smiling slightly, “uh. Regimen. And they have ingredients that interact in a,” he waves a hand, “way.”

“Okay. So you’re not in pain? It won’t hurt you?”

“Mmm. Quite the opposite.”

Harry considers this.

“Temporary euphoria. You’re _high_?”

“Quite.”

He probably shouldn’t, but Harry laughs.

Malfoy laughs too, shoving his grin into the crook of one elbow.

“It’s nice,” he mutters, face half-hidden by the chunky knit of the jumper.

“I imagine so. You should probably eat something, though.”

“Are you going to feed me again?” Malfoy asks. “I liked that.”

Jesus.

Harry clears his throat.

“I…can?”

Malfoy—well, there’s really no other way to describe it— _flops_ over into Harry’s lap, wiggling to fit the cup of his neck to the curve of Harry’s thigh, and opens his mouth expectantly.

“Right,” Harry says.

It’s not like he was unaware that Malfoy is attractive.

More than once, particularly in the last few years at Hogwarts, he’d thought to himself what a shame it was that someone so _pretty_ was such an evil bigot.

But Harry doesn’t think Malfoy is an evil bigot anymore. Maybe he wasn’t ever. And his past behaviour certainly can’t be excused but maybe—Harry thinks it can be forgiven.

He thinks Malfoy wants to be forgiven.

Harry dips a piece of bread into soup and delivers it to Malfoy’s waiting mouth. He watches as Malfoy chews happily, as he swallows, as the lines of his jaw move too close to the surface of his skin.

Harry considers the pale blue map of veins visible under Malfoy’s eyes and feeds him another piece of bread.

He’s not—he’s not exactly pretty anymore.

He’s too thin. 

Too…brittle.

Harry can’t, in fact, point to what he still finds so compelling about Malfoy except that maybe he smells good—even under the lingering astringent scents of hospital and fear—but that’s a rather new wolf-related development, not something he ever noticed at Hogwarts.

Regardless, he is.

Compelling.

Harry doesn’t get the chance to consider the implications of this, because Pansy and Blaise arrive with a sudden and decidedly unwelcome crack.

“Ugh,” Malfoy says, turning his face into Harry’s belly. “No. Make them go away.”

“I’m delighted to see you too,” Pansy says.

“Oh Merlin,” Blaise says. “Is Potter _hand-feeding_ you?”

Harry shoves the piece of bread he was previously extending to Malfoy into his own mouth.

“He was before you showed up,” Malfoy says, plaintive. “Go _away._ ”

Blaise chokes on a laugh.

“Are you drugged?” He turns to address Harry. “Is he drugged?”

“Er,” Harry says. “Sort of? He said he has temporary euphoria from taking too many potions all at once. He’s fine, though. I’m taking care of him.”

“Oh yes,” Blaise says, one eyebrow very, very, high. “I can see that.”

Harry’s face goes hot.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, muffled but imperious. “Growl at them or something so they’ll leave.”

“Right.” Harry says. “Malfoy needs rest so you should probably come back later. We don’t have anything to give you for the case anyway, so—”

“We know,” Pansy interrupts, “We just wanted to check on Draco after his harrowing day and drop these off.”

She sets a drawstring bag that smells like old parchment onto the counter.

“What is that?” 

“Don’t ask _questions_ ,” Malfoy whines. “It’ll just make them stay longer.”

“I visited the Manor yesterday, after dealing with an absurd amount of opposition from the Curse-Breakers and dark artefact specialists still crawling all over the place, I’ll have you know.”

“A real imposition,” Blaise adds. “Took hours. She had to reschedule her facial.”

Pansy glowers at him.

“Okay, but what’s in the bag?”

Malfoy makes a desolate noise.

“All the records from the Malfoy’s personal archives that mention the Potter family. There’s quite a bit so be careful with the extension charm. Don’t just go dumping the whole thing out.”

Harry isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“How did—”

But, of course, Draco must have told her. Must have asked her to do it. For him.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and he’s uncertain if he should be looking at Pansy or Malfoy when he says it. “I appreciate it.”

Pansy rolls her eyes and holds out a hand to Blaise.

“It’s late and we’re clearly not wanted here.”

He takes her hand with an exaggerated bow. 

“Of course, my lady. Draco. Harry. Enjoy your evening.”

And then they’re gone.

“You know,” Harry says, fingers descending to sift through Malfoy’s hair. “Hermione gave me this Sleekeazy’s kit a while back. It’s got shampoo and conditioner and a mask thing. It’s supposed to be, uh, reparative? She was trying to convince me to ‘treat myself,’ but I thought maybe you might want to use it tonight. After your long day.”

Malfoy sighs, face still tucked into Harry’s stomach.

He can feel the warmth of the exhalation through his jumper.

“I don’t need your pity,” he says, more resigned than angry.

“It’s not pity, it’s just—you did something nice for me.”

“I did not,” Malfoy protests.

“So I want to do something nice for you.”

“ _Pansy_ did something nice for you of her own volition. Not even nice, really. Probably quite underhanded. Have you ever spent time in old family archives? She may very well be trying to bore you to death.”

“Malfoy.”

“What.”

“It was nice. Thank you.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything for several seconds, then:

“If you _really_ wanted to do something nice for me you would offer to wash my hair too.” 

The petulance should not be cute. Harry finds that telling himself this, however, does not make it true. He has no idea how to respond.

“I uh. Can?” He manages.

Malfoy rolls, surprise palpable, to look up at Harry.

“Really?”

“Sure. You want me to fill the tub?”

“Tub,” Malfoy scoffs. “Fill the trough, you mean?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, shall I fill the trough?”

Malfoy gestures: pale fingers; thin wrist; elegance and feigned disdain.

“I will allow it.”

Harry shifts Malfoy’s head from his lap to the sofa cushion and goes to turn on the water and retrieve the Sleakeazy’s kit from his trunk.

“You’re supposed to shampoo, then let the potion mask sit for 15 minutes, then condition for another five,” he says, reading the back of the box. “Do you just want to soak through all that?”

“Do you have bubbles?” Malfoy asks, reaching for a piece of bread on the coffee table.

“Er. I think I have a bag of bath salts. Is that the same thing?”

Malfoy sighs. “It is _not_. But I suppose it will have to do.”

The plate with bread is just an inch beyond his fingers. 

He drops his arm, expression despondent.

_Not cute,_ Harry reminds himself.

“You can continue feeding me whilst I soak.” 

“Oh I can, can I?”

“Yes.”

Harry retreats to the bathroom, dumps a third of the bath salts into the tub, and folds a towel over the back curve of the metal so Malfoy has something soft to rest his neck on. He takes his time rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and adjusts the water temperature by a few degrees, using his hands to disperse the cooler flow before turning off the tap. He wipes his palms on his jeans. 

He takes a moment—wand out and everything—to transfigure the step stool in the corner into a larger, more chair-like, stool, and then he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, considering the space between the bathroom and the sofa.

He observers Malfoy’s prone position on the sofa, where he has taken on the appearance more of a liquid than solid being: a tumble of sharp limbs and loose clothing and wide, bleary, grey eyes.

He is such a contrast, now, to the aristocratic, refined, boy Harry used to know, but he is also somehow simultaneously achingly familiar.

He walks to the sofa and picks Malfoy up.

It isn’t quite the smooth, casual, movement he meant it to be, mostly because Malfoy nearly knocks him out with a surprised elbow, but Harry has become adept at avoiding projectiles so there’s only a slightly awkward lurch before Malfoy is tucked in a secure bridal carry against his chest.

“You’re carrying me,” Malfoy says.

“I am.”

“Why are you carrying me?”

“Because you’re still weak. And high. And you should be resting. And I don’t want you to slip on the wet floor.” Harry deposits him on the transfigured stool and sets about removing his shoes.

“Am I hallucinating?” Malfoy asks faintly. 

“No,” Harry says.

“That’s likely what a hallucination would say.”

“You’re not hallucinating,” Harry says patiently, “lift your foot for a second.”

Malfoy obeys.

“Is this a dream then?”

Harry slides off the first shoe.

“Nope. Real life. Potions high, remember?”

Malfoy doesn’t appear to believe him, but he does stay strangely docile through the removal of his socks and his shirt, holding up his arms before Harry has even fully stood from his crouch.

And then he sits there, waiting expectantly, lean, naked, arms slung around his knees, trousers low on his hips, hair a complete disarray. His eyes are wide-pupilled and guileless.

Harry gestures towards the living room. “I’ll just. Step outside for a minute if you want to take care of the rest and get in the tub. Let me know when you’re finished, okay?”

“Definitely not a dream, then,” Malfoy mutters, sounding put out. 

Harry has no idea what that means.

When Malfoy calls him back into the bathroom, his skin is already pink from the heat—from the steam coming off the milky green-tinted water.

His hair is plastered, nearly translucent, to the curve of his skull; the slope of his narrow neck; the protruding vertebra where nape meets spine.

Harry opens the shampoo and kneels.

“You should probably close your eyes,” he says.

Malfoy’s eyelashes are so thin, so pale, that even clumped together with water they are nearly invisible.

He pours a liberal amount of citrus-smelling potion into his hands and gets to work.

Despite having shampooed his own head thousands of times, there is something distinctly anomalous about washing someone else’s. 

Maybe it’s the contrast of his dark, work-rough, hands against the pale, fine, hair. Maybe it’s the heat-flushed skin of Malfoy’s shoulders where the hair falls when Harry releases it. Maybe it’s the sharp slope of shoulder-blades or the terraced landscape of Malfoy’s curved back—ribs too close to the surface, and closer still with every inhale.  Maybe it’s the goosebumps, despite the heat, at the nape of Malfoy’s neck.

Regardless, Harry didn’t know that it was possible that a brief shampooing—well, perhaps not that brief. Perhaps, even, far more extended than necessary—could induce an existential crisis.

It certainly appears possible, now.

Once he’s applied the mask with a fair bit more haste, Harry escapes to the kitchen to breathe away from the cloying scents of steamy citrus and bergamot and _Malfoy._

Except he realises that, as he’s breathing, he’s also rewarming the soup and bread and pouring a chocolate nutritional shake into a glass jar with a handle so it won’t slip out of Malfoy’s wet fingers.

And then he’s going right back into the bathroom to try and coerce Malfoy into eating as much as possible because it is suddenly very, very, important that he gains some weight and stops looking so terribly breakable.

Things only get worse after the bath.

Because Harry carries him up to the loft bed and then Malfoy is pink-cheeked and silk-haired and wearing another one of Harry’s sweaters and _tucked into Harry’s bed_. And he doesn’t look nearly so ill.

In fact, he looks much like he used to, admittedly with longer hair.

Except instead of glaring at Harry with abrasive malice, Malfoy is—well he’s not exactly smiling, but the look on his face is…soft. Friendly. Maybe even fond.

Harry sets a container with biscuits in it on the floor next to Malfoy’s head.

“I know you said you were full, but just in case.”

“Jesus, Potter,” he mumbles, eyes nearly closed. “Stop trying to fatten me up.”

“Well _someone_ needs to,” he snarls back.

He resists the impulse to clap a hand over his mouth as Malfoy flinches.

“Sorry. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m being weird about this.”

Malfoy blinks at him.

“Oh,” he says. “You—I should have realised. You can’t help it.”

“What?”

“You can’t help it,” Malfoy says. “The wanting to feed me. It’s—your wolf side is just confused. Because I’m in your space and I probably smell like you, now. So you think I’m your responsibility and you’re—” he swallows “—providing for me. Because I’m ill and weak. It’s just instinct. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s fine.”

Harry wants to argue with him but he’s not sure why.

“Maybe I’m just concerned about your health,” he says.

“Sure,” Malfoy answers, placating. “Thank you. I’ll try to eat more.”

Harry snarls and goes downstairs.

He doesn’t stay there.

Twenty minutes and one hurried bath of his own later, Harry stomps back up the ladder, shifts into the wolf, and crawls onto the bed, shoving his way under the duvet.

“Oh,” Draco murmurs rolling to face him. He lifts an arm in invitation, half asleep. “Are you finished sulking now?”

Harry sticks his wet nose in Draco’s ear.

Draco, the bastard, doesn’t even seem to mind.

“Shhh,” he says, despite the fact that Harry is currently incapable of speech. “It’s time for sleeping.”

He cinches his arm around Harry’s neck.

“Shh,” he says again.

Harry stills.

He could easily break Draco’s hold.

He doesn’t.

***

Harry goes for a run in the morning.

The proximity of the full moon wakes him up before sunrise, like an itch under his skin, so he shifts into his human shape just long enough to descend the loft ladder and slip outdoors and then he reclaims four legs and _runs_.

It helps, maybe, and he’s feeling more settled, if a little out of breath, when he slips back inside an hour later.

He finds Draco sitting on the kitchen counter, legs tucked to his chest, clutching one of the upper cabinet door handles with his left hand. His right hand keeps a mug balanced on his knees. His bare toes are curled just over the lip of the butcher’s block. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asks.

“Drinking tea,” Draco answers. His tone says _obviously_.

“On the _counter_?”

This time he says it out loud: “Obviously.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because I felt like it, Potter. Do I need your permission?”

Harry considers the situation for several seconds.

“Where’s the spider?” he asks.

Draco takes a haughty sip from his mug.

“Under the cabinet by the fridge.”

Harry relocates the spider outdoors and then returns to the kitchen, where Draco is still pointedly sitting on the counter.

“You know,”  Harry says, fixing his own mug of tea, “you and Ron have more in common than you think.”

“Take that back,” Draco says.

Malfoy insists on going to work—says he feels practically healthy with the combination of potions and inhalers and a night of close proximity to Harry—and Harry is beginning to learn when to pick his battles. So he agrees without argument, packs Malfoy a possibly excessive lunch, and drives them to Daughters. Harry then shifts into a wolf and completely ignores Draco’s dramatics as he follows him inside.

Billy coos over them both, tries to force Draco to eat the lasagne she brought for her own lunch, and spends several minutes sitting on the floor scratching Harry’s ears.

She has long fingernails and Harry has no shame.

It’s actually a nice morning.

Billy busies herself catching up on shelf-stocking and cleaning the windows so Draco can just sit on a stool at the counter and Harry spends the morning with his nose pushed up against Draco’s ankle—against the little sliver of skin between his trousers and his socks.

The sun coming in the window behind the till moves from his tail to his back to his front toes over the next several hours and Harry doses, content, half-listening as Malfoy assures various patrons who noted his absence that he’s just fine, only had a bit of a cold and is all better now. 

Billy leaves at lunch after extracting a promise from Draco that he won’t exert himself and will promptly go home when she returns at three. She also bends to kiss Harry’s head and tells him, very seriously, to keep an eye on Draco. He blinks solemnly at her.

The following hour is similarly relaxed apart from the brief chaos that is a harried Mrs. Watson and her five boys. Harry ends up an impromptu babysitter for the youngest who, recently having discovered walking, attempts to climb into the frozen section on three separate occasions whilst his mother is otherwise occupied with his crying, shoving, shouting, handsy siblings.

Harry follows him around anxiously, tugging at the back of his shirt whenever destructive impulses hit, until he gets tired. Then, Harry finds himself sprawled in front of the till with the child on his neck, pulling sleepily on his ears, and his mother, more relieved than she should be considering her progeny is antagonising a wolf, makes jokes about hiring Draco’s dog as a babysitter.

Harry thinks that will be the most noteworthy thing to happen, right up until two pm.

When the three men from before—Harry remembers the one is named McAllister—shove their way loudly through the door.

Draco, who usually greets customers by name upon entrance, says nothing. 

Harry sits up.

“Well shit,” one man says, glancing towards the counter, “looks like Billy’s charity case is back.”

“Thought Melly said he was sick,” the second one says.

“Sick in the head,” McAllister says.

None of them make an attempt to keep their voices down as they open the beer cooler door.

“Fuckin’ right,” the first says. “Twenty years ago we’d’ve just drug him behind a truck and been done with it.”

Harry isn’t entirely sure what happens.

One moment he’s leaned against Draco’s thigh, ears tipped towards the cold section of the store.

The next he’s—

There.

He doesn’t know if he went around the counter or jumped over it or somehow managed to apparate.

He doesn’t know if he shoved the other two men aside or if they fell in their haste to get away from him.

He doesn’t know who broke the glass door to the cold case.

What he does know is that he deeply, _deeply_ , wants to hurt the man cowered behind it.

“Potter!” Draco yells from the front of the store.

The Wolf ignores him.

The man is cornered, back against the slightly frosted racks of boxed Budweisers. The cold case door is hanging at an angle, a wake of broken glass between them. The man’s hands are curled desperately around the broken door’s frame, as if it will provide protection. 

It will not.

The fur on the Wolf’s neck and down his spine is stiff and raised. There is a noise in his throat that is most certainly a growl. He can feel the grotesque curl of his lips over his teeth. He can smell the man’s fear.

It is thrilling.

“Potter,” Draco nearly takes out an end cap as he comes careening around the corner.

“Potter, stop.”

The Wolf does not want to stop.

The Wolf wants to _bite_.

Except Draco’s hands are closing in the ruff of fur around his neck. They are pulling hands. Fragile hands. The Wolf does not want to shake him off but he does not want to stop, either.

“Potter, don’t. It’s not worth it. Stop.”

The Wolf wants—

“Harry,” Draco says, mouth warm against his ear. “Please. _Harry_. Don’t.”

Ah.

The Wolf—

No. _Harry_.

Harry blinks.

He swallows a growl.

He lets Draco pull him back a foot.

Then another.

“I suggest you leave whilst you still can,” Draco says.

The men run.

***

It takes several minutes for Harry to get his head right—to get to a place where he can shift back into his human shape, _accio_ his wand from the car, and repair the spray of broken glass and splintered plastic in the cold section.

Malfoy is furious.

By the time Billy returns, the shop looks immaculate, Harry is once again a wolf, and Draco is ignoring him to the point of kicking him in the face when Harry tries to resume his place at Draco’s feet.

Draco drives them back to the barns in silence.

Tends the plants in silence.

Demonstrates he is perfectly capable of turning on the television and navigating Amazon Prime Video himself in silence.

Harry is nearly finished cooking dinner when he sighs, turning down the heat, and waves a hand at the television, pausing it.

He leans back against the counter, arms crossed.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright? I don’t know what happened.”

“And _I_ don’t know why I’m sharing a home with an unstable animal,” Malfoy murmurs, mashing the play button on the remote. “It would seem confusion is the theme of the day.”

“Come on, they were saying some terrible shit, I can hardly be blamed—”

“You almost _killed_ a human. A muggle. Even the great Harry Potter is not immune to murder charges and you could hardly argue self-defence as a rationale; your life was not in danger. And if you had killed him—even if you’d just _bitten_ him, which, arguably might have been even worse— _I don’t have any magic_ , Potter. I wouldn’t have been able to help you. You would have gone to whatever passes as prison for wizards in America and then I would have _died_ because _you’re the only thing keeping me alive right now_.”

Harry pauses the TV again, ignoring Malfoy’s little growl of fury.

“I said I’m sorry,” Harry repeats. “I just. Lost control for a minute. I was so _angry_.”

“Have you considered therapy?”

Harry thinks Malfoy is probably being facetious, but—

“I have, yeah. I’ve got the number for a squib with a muggle practice. But she takes wizarding clients as well. I just. Haven’t called the number.”

“Oh.”

Malfoy’s face does something complicated.

“Well,” he says, considerably less acerbic. “Maybe you should.”

Harry thinks that might be wise.

“I’ll call tomorrow.”

Malfoy continues to _look_ at him.

“Do you want me to start this episode over?” he asks, finally. “You’ve missed some good bits.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Yeah, that’d be nice. You want me to bring you some food?”

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Happy Christmas, Yule, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa if you celebrate any holidays therein! I made several fancy pies for my family's Christmas celebrations yesterday. Please see tumblr if you would like to give me validation in the form of complements RE my lattice-work. Also see Tumblr if you'd like to view a video of Deacon enjoying his present (six tiny squeaky dinosaurs stuffed in a plush volcano). Did anyone get exceptionally exciting gifts? I'll be working on my favorite gift, a 1000 piece Shakespeare puzzle, today, while I wear pajamas for 24 hrs and pretend I have no responsibilities except puzzle-making and leftover-food-eating.
> 
> See you in two weeks!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: very brief reference to child abuse (Harry) and sexual assault/torture (Draco).

Potter does not go to work with Draco the next day.

Well, he does, but only to drop him off. Potter drives Draco to Daughters, walks him indoors, and then leaves him with a frankly ridiculous amount of food for lunch and a vague, if not somewhat alarming, assertion that he needs to go pick some flowers.

Billy seems to think it’s a charming indication of courtship, judging by the knowing, pink-cheeked grin she throws Draco as Potter leaves.

Draco is pretty sure the flowers in question are of the deadly controlled-magical-substance variety, growing suspiciously healthy on Potter’s property in a location where they shouldn’t be capable of growing at all.

“Be careful,” he says, not because he’s concerned about Potter’s safety, but because _his_ health will be affected if Potter manages to kill himself.

He can’t remind Potter of that with Billy standing there, though. So instead, he says, “be careful.”

Billy sighs, one hand on her chest and an expression on her face that says it’s going to be a long day.

It’s a long day.

Billy seems to think that he and Potter are in some ill-conceived romantic entanglement and spends the morning trying to entice details of their relationship from him whilst simultaneously reminding him of her support for “their cause” whatever that cause may be.

And then, shortly after Billy leaves at lunch, Lavon arrives and asks several friendly but pointed questions about Mr. Potter and Draco’s current living situation and how nice it is that Draco isn’t so lonely anymore, so clearly Billy has been keeping Lavon apprised of her incorrect assumptions.

Draco has never been so relieved to see Potter when he arrives shortly before 3pm to pick Draco up.

He shoves his apron under the counter, practically dives around the partition whilst yelling goodbye to Lavon, and stalks out to the car before Potter can get any ideas about coming inside and _engaging in conversation_.

“Nice day?” Potter asks.

“Hardly,” Draco says, buckling his seatbelt.

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Did someone give you trouble?”

The hair on the back of Draco’s neck stands up at the timbre in Potter’s tone.

“Oh. No. Not like that. Billy was—” he sighs. “My day was fine. I’m just tired.”

Potter’s knuckles on the steering wheel get a bit less pronounced.

“How’s your chest? And your head. And your…everything, I guess?” 

“ _Fine_. My cough started to come back about an hour ago, though.”

Potter pulls onto the main road, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “I was afraid of that. I thought about dropping by at lunch, to, er, touch you? For a while. That sounds—you know what I mean. Only I wasn’t sure how I could without Billy thinking—”

“Oh, she already _thinks_ ,” Draco says dourly. “A little handholding would probably delight her.”

“Oh,” Potter says. “Okay. Well, until I’m certain I can control the wolf we’ll just do that, then.”

“Wait,” Draco says, “I wasn’t actually—”

Potter extends the hand that had previously been cupped around the gear shift. “I’ll change when we get back and lie on the sofa with you for a bit, but you can have a dose now, if you like.”

Draco accepts the hand.

He brings their linked fingers to rest on top of his thigh.

He turns his hot face towards the window.

***

Potter has a selection of Black Foxglove samples sitting in jars on the bench in the potions barn.

Draco eyes them warily as he checks the hydroponics system and then walks down the rows of greenery, fingers drifting from leafy crown to leafy crown.

“Hermione and Pansy are going to come run some experiments on them in a few days,” Harry says, pinching a yellowed leaf off a mustard plant. 

“You told Pansy and Granger?”

“Yes? I don’t know anything about deadly plants and you shouldn’t be messing with them if you don’t have magic. They told me how to take the samples and what spells to put them under until they can finish their research and come deal with them.”

He considers telling Potter that he’s far too trusting, but doesn’t. Because he actually finds Potter’s trust endearing and criticising it now seems…unsporting.

“Alright, then.”

Potter clears his throat, attention fully—perhaps too fully—on a second, well-pruned, mustard plant.

“They told me that there’s been, er. A lot of talk. In the papers back home. About us.”

Draco finds he needs to sit down.

Potter leaps forward, eyes wide.

“Are you okay?”

Draco bats at his reaching hands. “I’m fine. Just contemplating the fallout. Were there pictures?”

“Several, apparently. Pansy said she’d bring some copies when she’s here next.”

“Fantastic.”

“Hermione sent in a statement to the Prophet on my behalf asking for respect and privacy and all that. Don’t know if they’ll publish it, but we’ll see. You can send in one as well, if you like.”

Draco sets aside his own horror for a moment to consider Potter, balanced on his toes in a crouch, wrists on bent knees, head tipped to one side. He looks a little anxious. Maybe embarrassed. He doesn’t appear all that upset, though.

“You’re being shockingly cavalier about your fall from grace,” Draco points out. “Disappearing and then being seen in the company of a known Death Eater.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Former Death Eater. And I think I’m past the point of caring what the papers print about me. I was more worried about you.”

“Me?”

It takes a moment for that to compute.

“I can’t imagine that press about me associating with you would be any worse than press about me associating with the Dark Lord.”

Potter’s nose wrinkles.

And isn’t that such a Potter reaction. Most people would shudder at the mention of Voldemort. Potter looks as if he’s smelt something a bit off.

“I suppose we both don’t care then,” he says.

“I suppose.”

“Good. Well. Healer Nott is going to Facetime us in an hour. You want to go rest for a bit until then?”

Draco had, indeed, been looking forward to the promised nap.

“Alright,” he says. 

He lets Potter help him to his feet purely so he’ll stop looking so anxious.

***

An hour later, Draco wakes on the sofa to the warm, heavy, weight of a wolf’s head on his chest and the incessant ringing of Potter’s laptop on the coffee table.

He shoves ineffectively at Potter’s face whilst leaning forward to accept the call.

“Healer Nott,” he says, attempting to sit up.

Nott says nothing for several seconds, staring at Potter who is resisting waking and attempting to shove his nose into Draco’s armpit.

“Yes, yes, The Boy Who Lived is an overly tactile wolf, I’m sure it’s all very fascinating. Do you have any new information for us?”

Nott clears his throat.

“Yes. That is, perhaps. Do you…want me to call back later? Or—”

Draco sighs. “Potter,” he says, flicking the wolf’s ear. “Healer Nott is likely going to be useless until you shift back. Can you please cooperate for a moment?”

Potter’s subsequent sigh tickles the soft inner flesh of Draco’s bicep. But he does clamber off the sofa in a series of awkward movements and then returns from the bathroom a moment later, pulling down a shirt over still-unbuttoned jeans like an absolute heathen.

Potter yawns, scrubbing a hand through hair in a riotous disarray, and drops onto the sofa, slinging a proprietary arm around Draco’s neck. He slips his hand just inside the collar of Draco’s shirt, palm pressed flat to his sternum, and squints at the laptop screen.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m awake. Weren’t you supposed to call at four-thirty?”

Nott clears his throat again.

Draco holds very still and tries not to blush.

“It’s four thirty-two,” Nott says. “You have remarkable control over your…lupine symptoms."

“Oh. Sorry,” Potter yawns again. “And I do, yeah. Mostly. So, you were saying you had more information for us?”

Nott blinks. Then sighs. “Yes. I pulled all existing research on magical transference and have been working through it. Unfortunately, I’ve found nothing on transference between a Creature and an entirely human wizard, or transference that resulted in a temporary or false magical core. However, there _was_ one documented case of a half-Veela wizard and a werewolf wizard in Dublin who formed an accidental magical transference pair after their Auror unit suffered a tragedy. The werewolf saved the half-Veela’s life in the field. Apparently there was also a romantic connection at play.”

“And this information is of use to us _how_?” Draco asks.

“Werewolves can serve in Auror units in Dublin?” Potter asks.

“Potter,” Draco says.

“Right. Sorry. Not important.”

Nott raises one eyebrow at Draco. “Is it at all possible that you have Veela ancestry? I know your mother used to joke about it at parties but I never thought—”

Neither had he.

“Makes sense,” Potter says.

“It certainly does not,” Draco says. 

Potter looks surprised by his vehemence. “Why not?”

“Why do you think it _makes sense_?”

Potter gestures at him, looking baffled. “Just. With the way you look, I mean. All blonde and pointy and,” he voice drops a bit, eyes cutting sideways to the laptop screen, “you know…pretty.”

“You think I’m _pretty_?”

“Well you _are_.”

“Gentlemen,” Nott says.

Draco resists the urge to hide his face. Mostly because if he did it would likely dislodge Potter’s hand, still stuck down his shirt.

Dwelling on that doesn’t help the flush he’s trying to be rid of.

“I don’t know,” Draco says. “I suppose it’s possible, but I’d have to— _someone_ would have to go check the family genealogy archives. Does it matter, in terms of treatment?”

“No, but it would at least give us a similar case to use as precedent. Sustained contact, provided that it doesn’t overly deplete the donor, is still the recommended course of treatment, regardless.”

“Well,” Potter says, tapping his fingers against Draco’s breastbone. “That’s easy enough. And I feel fine, so.”

“How are _you_ feeling, Mr. Malfoy?” Nott asks.

“Good. Or close to it. Tired. I still have a cough in the mornings, and it comes back if I don’t—if I don’t have contact with Potter for several hours. No headaches or dizziness or back pain. I’m back on potions for those symptoms and I’m using a muggle breathing treatment for my lungs as well.”

“Good. It sounds like you’re already forming a workable treatment plan, but I’m going to send you an official one with a list of potions and suggestions about diet and exercise.” He pauses and something about his expression makes Draco lean forward a little.

“It’s my understanding from Mr. Zabini,” he says, cautious, “that my findings on your condition might be used as evidence to force a new sentencing trial for you and others who lost their magic after the war.”

“Yes,” Draco says. “That’s correct.”

“In that case, I’m assuming you don’t want me to include mention of your inexplicable transference bond with Mr. Potter in that official file on your condition.”

“That is also correct.”

“Alright.”

Nott tidies a stack of papers on his desk, mouth turned down at the corners.

“I suppose it goes without saying, if you did not have this connection with Mr. Potter, your outlook would be…quite grim.”

“I understand that, yes. Considering the, ah, connection, do you have any idea—any estimate—on what my longevity might be?”

“I’d hesitate to try and make that estimate without further knowledge. Have you thought any more about allowing me to contact a specialist?”

“I’m alright with it,” Potter murmurs, mouth to his ear, low enough that it’s possible only Draco hears him.

“They would need to sign a nondisclosure contract before they received any information about the special circumstances or our identities,” Draco says.

“I imagine that’s possible. May I begin making inquiries?”

“You may.”

“Excellent. I’ll also send copies of the existing research on magical transference along with my official findings. I’m assuming you want these documents sent to Mr. Zabini?”

“Yes, please. And do send them with confidentiality spells in place, if you would.”

“Of course. I’ll have the documents to him within the hour. I also wonder—” Nott pauses and then begins again. “I understand you also visited with a muggle physician for a prognosis and treatment plan?”

“We did.”

“I wonder if you might share the documents of their findings with me. I find myself curious.”

“We don’t have them yet,” Draco says. “But I have no issue sharing them when we do.”

“We’ll have them at five-thirty today,” Potter interrupts. “They called about a follow-up appointment while you were at work.”

Draco frowns at Potter’s innocent expression.

“I thought they said it would take several days.”

“Well,” Potter says, “apparently they were able to expedite the results. And Blaise was able to get us portkeys set up last-minute, too.”

“How fortuitous.”

Nott either laughs or coughs. “Well,” he says, “I look forward to seeing those results. I have another appointment but I’ll keep you apprised of my success in finding a consultant.”

“Thank you.”

Draco hangs up the call.

“So,” Potter says brightly, “we should probably get ready. Our portkey is in thirty minutes.”

“Why is it you didn’t inform me about this appointment earlier?”

“Because you needed rest. And if you’d known you wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Because you would have been anxious about going back to the hospital. This way you got some sleep and didn’t have a chance to worry.”

It’s true.

Draco hates that Potter knows him that well.

“You want to wear another one of my jumpers? It looks like the weather in Atlanta is pretty cold right now. You can borrow some gloves and a scarf as well.”

Draco allows Potter to dress him with only minimal disdainful remarks.

***

When they leave the hospital in Atlanta, the sky is pink and the rain that drummed against the windows during their visit with Dr. Kole has diminished to a thick mist. The asphalt, blanketed in puddled, reflecting, water, is as pink as the sky; in places it perfectly mirrors the strings of bumpy purple-blue clouds overhead.

There’s a whole packet of papers and prescriptions tucked under one of Harry’s arms but despite the fact that he’s just been handed a death sentence, Draco is strangely content. Because perhaps it won’t be a death sentence, after all. Perhaps, thanks to whatever Potter’s magic is doing, he’ll survive long enough to have his sentence overturned.

For the first time in over a year, he has begun to hope.

Harry had suggested they go for a walk whilst they waited for their portkey home. And then, a minute into that walk, and despite the fact that they were both wearing gloves against the chill in the air, Harry had taken his hand. There was no excuse for it. Magical transference didn’t work through clothing and Draco was more than stable enough to handle a gentle stroll down a paved sidewalk without assistance. And yet.

Ten minutes later, Draco’s hand is still in Harry’s and he tries not to bring attention to it—to make sure he doesn’t twitch his fingers or tighten his grip. He glances at their surroundings, attempting a lackadaisical air. He tries to forget he has a hand at all.

Except, inevitably, in trying to avoid looking at their hands, he ends up looking at Harry, instead. Harry, who is breathing out steam, squinting against the sunset, smiling at him.

Smiling. At him.

_He’s beautiful_ , Draco realises. With mist in his hair and one slightly crooked canine tooth in his wide, gentle smile. With his stupid eyes and his shoulders and his slowly moving thumb against Draco’s knuckles.

He’s beautiful.

And Draco might love him a little.

It is a phenomenally inopportune revelation.

Cars pass them in a soft susurrus of wet-rubber-on-wet-road noise and Draco tries to breathe normally.

How did normal people breathe?

He can’t seem to remember.

Potter squeezes his hand and Draco, overwhelmed by—he doesn’t even know, Potter’s attention? His own baffling hubris?—flinches before he can stop himself.

“Hey. You okay?” Potter asks.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he lies. “Just tired. Looking forward to going home”

Potter’s smile dims, then hitches a little.

“Home,” he says, like it means something else. Something more. “Yeah. Me too.”

***

Their evening consists of another short rest with a wolf draped against Draco’s side, head on his chest. Draco sort of wishes Harry would stay a wolf because it’s a lot easier to deal with him when he’s furry and not smiling softly at him and touching him with calloused hands and _looking_ at him.

Except Harry has to be human again to make dinner seeing as Draco is useless in the kitchen and cooking requires opposable thumbs.

Actually, Draco imagines Harry could probably cook a meal entirely using wandless magic whilst in wolf form if he really wanted to, but he’s not about to make any challenges to that effect.

Draco is paging aimlessly through the pile of research that Blaise dropped off while they were gone. He doesn’t understand half of what’s written in the very, very, dry scholarly articles spread across the coffee table and he wishes, not for the first time, that there was a wizarding equivalent to Google. Muggles may often do things completely backwards (blood draws come to mind), but the internet is clearly superior to Wizarding archives and owl-post inquiries.

Draco sighs, trying to remember where he left his reading glasses, and sits up, turning to hook his elbows over the back of the couch.

He’s going to ask Potter if he’s seen his glasses but doesn’t.

Instead, he watches: caught up in the way that Potter is holding the frying pan in one hand, the muscles of his forearm shifting as he sautés garlic, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

Potter glances over his shoulder and notices Draco staring.

“I had an abusive childhood,” Potter says, apropos of nothing.

“Uh.” Draco says. 

“Sorry. I’m just supposed to say it out loud.” He sets the pan down and waves an awkward explanatory hand that isn’t, actually, all that explanatory. “For therapy. I had my first appointment at lunch today. We don’t have to talk about it or anything.”

_Ah._

“Ah. Well. If that’s something you’d _like_ to discuss—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

“Mm.”

Except Potter’s posture has gone…wrong, somehow: No longer loose and confident and Draco has no idea how to fix it.

Potter made a therapy appointment.

He’s trying.

Perhaps Draco should too.

Draco clears his throat.

“I was sexually assaulted,” Draco says. “As well as just. Generally. Assaulted. Tortured maybe? I’m not sure what the differentiation is there, actually.”

Potter, quite suddenly, is standing at the sofa, fingers curled into the blanket draped over the back of it, eyes wide and dark, posture feral.

“ _Who_ ,” he says, and it’s less of a word and more of a sound. A very low, frightening, sound.

Draco realises his mistake.

“Jesus, not—calm down. Not _recently_. There’s no one for you to kill, not that I would condone that if there was. I’m fine. Look at me. I’m perfectly fine.”

Potter relaxes a fraction but his teeth still appear a little too crowded in his mouth.

“Would you sit?” Draco says. “You’re frightening me.”

Potter sits.

He breathes for several long seconds. Takes down his hair. Finger combs it back up again.

“Sorry,” he says, finally. His voice still sounds rough, lower than usual. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I’m not—there’s nothing to continue. I was just. You said… a thing. So I said a thing.”

The phrasing is embarrassingly pedestrian, but Draco’s pureblood lessons in elocution hardly covered heart-to-hearts about trauma.

“So,” Draco summarises. “You had an abusive childhood. I experienced a series of traumatic events whilst the Dark Lord and his minions were cavorting about my family home.We’ve both shared things, now. Therapy.”

“Oh,” Potter says. “Right. Do you…want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

Potter is silent for several more seconds.

“Whoever it was. That hurt you. They’re dead?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Potter abruptly stands, returning to the kitchen, and dinner passes largely in silence. It’s not awkward silence, though; it’s companionable. With nudged elbows and mock fighting over the salt and washing up together after.

“Was it a werewolf?” Potter asks quietly as they’re drying dishes. “The one who—”

“Yes,” he says.

Potter swallows. “Should I not—does it bother you when I’m a wolf? I can stop shifting. And I can stay in the potions barn on full moons.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Obviously it doesn’t bother me. The only thing that bothers me is waking up to dog breath but that’s certainly preferable to cuddling you as…” he gestures towards Harry, ears hot “…you. So.”

Potter’s eyes narrow.

“Okay,” he says. He starts to say something else but stops. Purses his lips. Shakes his head slightly.

“Just to be clear. If it _does_ bother you—if _anything_ I do as a wolf, or as a human, bothers you. You need to tell me. So I don’t scare you or remind you of them.”

“You,” Draco says fiercely, possibly more fiercely than is warranted by the situation, “are _nothing_ like them.”

“Okay, but—”

“Yes, fine. I’ll tell you. But you have to do the same.”

Harry laughs, like they’re not having a very serious conversation.

“You have nothing in common with the Dursleys. And you could hardly hurt me, physically. Even if you wanted to.”

Draco is aware that he’s been insulted but since it’s factual—

“Even so.”

“Yeah, alright. Deal.”

Potter goes very still, suddenly, attention on the window, and Draco isn’t sure he likes the nearly tangible feeling of tension radiating off of him.

“Is something wrong?” Draco asks.

Potter’s fingers curl around the lip of the sink.

He doesn’t look at Draco when he says, “I want to try something.”

“Alright?” Draco says.

“I don’t know for sure if it will work, but I think it will, so I just. I’d like to try.”

“Okay? It might help if you tell me _what_ you want to try, Potter.”

Potter’s eyes are very wide and very green when he turns to face him.

“Please don’t get angry with me.”

“You’re not instilling me with much confid—what are you _doing_?”

Except it’s relatively obvious what Potter’s doing.

He’s moving to stand behind Draco. _Close_ , behind him. Chest to back, mouth against Draco’s ear. And Potter’s hand is slipping under the hem of Draco’s sweater, sliding in a wake of goosebumps up over his belly to rest, palm flat and warm in the centre of his chest. His other hand slips down Draco’s wrist to cover Draco’s, fingers tucking themselves into the divots of his knuckles. 

Draco doesn’t move.

Because he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he also doesn’t want it to stop.

Potter guides their linked hands up, off the counter, and reaches for—

Oh.

He resists and Potter stops moving.

“You don’t have to,” Potter says lowly. “But I think—can we try? Please?”

He stops resisting.

And with Potter’s hand cupped around his, they pick up Draco’s wand from the windowsill together—the wand that has been sitting there for weeks, collecting dust. The wand that he’s been trying to ignore every time he makes a cup of tea.

Their fingers overlap on smooth hawthorn.

Smooth, _warm_ , hawthorn.

Familiar. Like it recognises him.

Draco’s breath hitches and Potter tightens his grip.

“Cast lumos,” Potter says, more exhale than words. “I won’t do anything. I’ll just stand here, but—try. Please.”

Draco doesn’t think to argue.

“Lumos,” he breathes.

And the tip of his wand lights up a pale blue.

“Oh,” Draco says. 

Potter laughs, shaky and mostly silent, but Draco can tell he’s smiling.

Potter’s hand on his chest presses more firmly: thumb to breastbone, fingers digging into the thin layer of skin over his ribs. 

They watch, together, as the pale ember of light fades against the backdrop of the night-dark kitchen window and Draco leans back against Harry in sway of movement that Potter easily absorbs.

He closes his eyes.

He can feel the magic, subtle, but achingly present, in his palm where it’s curled around the wand. After nearly a year without, the feeling is something akin to euphoria.

“Lumos,” Draco says again.

Even with his eyes closed, he can see the light.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I am so close to being finished with the first complete draft of my dissertation. Just a few more days of work! Eeeee. I'm going to celebrate this occasion by watching The Mandalorian and The Witcher, reading a whole lot of fic, and doing nothing academic for at least 48 hours. If you have any recs for me to add to my reading list (Trek, Good Omens, Sherlock, Bond, HP, Check Pls, GOT) please do share! As usual, thanks for all the wonderful comments! I will try to answer them all at some point but for now please know I love and appreciate every one of them/you.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! For those who don't know me, I'm a Ph.D. student and I'm currently teaching and working on my dissertation, so updates will likely be slow. Expect chapter 1 in two weeks! 
> 
> To those of you who know me already--anyone care to guess how off my chapter estimate will be this time around? haha
> 
> I'm Xiaq on Tumblr as well.
> 
> Thanks to @zzledri for brit-picking!


End file.
